


The Grandmentor

by silvercistern



Series: The Ashes of District Twelve [7]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:05:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercistern/pseuds/silvercistern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sweetheart, don't you wanna talk to your mom or Annie or something? Or Johanna? Or literally any woman? I don't know what you expect me to say." Adventures in child-rearing from the perspective of everyone's favorite drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

"Haymitch, we have something to tell you."

The voice that announces this is female, and blunt as the backside of a rifle. It feels like one too, jolting me out of a nice, post-bender slumber. Just like always, even after forty years, my arm swings out, knife at the ready before I realize where I am and who is speaking. But there's no call for knives right now.

Even hung-over it doesn't take long for me to figure out what this is about. I've been expecting this for awhile.

It's, I dunno, maybe nine in the morning. Effie went back to the Capitol yesterday. Knowing me for sixteen years, they should know better than to wake me up this early on a day like this just to tell me something that I already know. Even if they don't, I'm over fifty, and have been, despite my wishes for peace and quiet, doling out grudging advice for a decent chunk of that time. Advice on subjects I don't even have experience with, like marriage, domestic disputes, and owning a business. I deserve some kind of rest.

After easing my grip on the worn knife handle, I roll onto my stomach and bury my head in my arms. It's not likely, but maybe they'll get the picture and save this for a more humane hour. Unfortunately, lying in this position is getting increasingly more difficult every year. Probably would be significantly easier if I wasn't developing such a gut.

Who cares? I've earned it.

A none too gentle kick knocks me onto my side. She's not fooling around today. Must be nerves. This is what the foreseeable future is gonna be like. Her nervous, all the time. Great. She's just a scintillating ball of sunshine and moonbeams when she's nervous.

I sigh and look up at them. They're not even kneeling even though I'm on the floor. Well, she never kneels down to wake me up. Usually it's worse than this, with a bucket of water or something. Kid always kneels though, even with the leg. He's got some sort of respect. Not that I would, if I were him. But I guess that's what makes him so damn  _special_. He's rubbing her back like he always does, trying to be encouraging or some nonsense, but I can tell that she wants him to stop because it's distracting her from what she's worked herself up to do. I'm wondering how long it took them to stop bickering and agree to come over here. My guess is at least three weeks.

Too bad for them I picked up on the entire point of this visit two and a half weeks ago.

He's smiling, and she's scowling. I know they're adults. Over thirty. Despite what some might think, I have actually kept track. But when they do this, stand here with these expressions plastered on their faces, they look sixteen again. She's glaring at me like she ate a rotten squirrel and I forced her to do it. Kid's bouncing on the balls of his feet, but he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Actually, forget sixteen. He looks about five, almost bursting with eager excitement.

I suddenly feel strange, knowing why they're here. Knowing how they managed to get here. It's a foreign emotion. I don't recognize it. It's not bitter and burnt out, or drunkenly uncaring. It's not sadness or horror. It's definitely not sardonic amusement. It's not even the gruff concern for their general well-being that I try to keep hidden as much as I can.

But I don't have time to figure out what the hell it actually is, because Katniss' mouth opens again. Apparently they decided she's the one who'll do the telling.

Perfect. This makes it so much more fun.

"Look, just make sure the kid doesn't call me 'grandpa.'"

Her mouth hangs open in surprise. The boy barks out shocked and, I might add, relieved laughter before she turns to him, her scowl transforming into more of a snarl.

I chuckle and roll over.

Time to go back to sleep.


	2. Zero

"Why won't this baby just  _come_?" she shouts across the yard.

I never thought I'd see the day when Katniss Everdeen started waddling. But my wait is apparently over because here she comes across the grass, the exaggerated roll in her hips propelling her forward. I feel just a bit of relief at first, because she looks better than I've seen her lately, especially since those few weeks when the kid kept coming home to find her hidden in the closet. Now she's less agonized and more annoyed. I suppose that's a good sign. Good for her; not necessarily good for me.

It had been a pretty nice afternoon before this. I like April. It's a pretty easy month. Not too wintery, not too many horrible memories, but not too many good ones either. I'm not sure which is worse to think about. It's too early to feel the dread over the Reaping that I still manage to feel every year, even though they're over and done with. Most importantly in April the trains can almost always run. Days like this, I sometimes even come out and sit on the porch during the day, watch the geese peck at each other. Of course, now I wish I had stayed inside, because I have no  _clue_ what to say to this one.

"I hate being pregnant," she mutters, easing herself onto the edge of the porch stair about a foot away. I lift my eyebrow and look at her. Is she kidding? Is she really going to make this that easy?

My caustic response is on the tip of my tongue as I reach beside me for my bottle, but then I feel a whoosh of air and hear a thud. Looking down, I see that there is a knife vibrating between my fingers, her small hand grasping it tightly. I don't react. She knows what she's doing. "Keep your mouth shut," she growls. Then she sighs heavily and leans back on her hands. Reclining like this, she looks like the beached whale I saw in Four during my own Victory Tour. They were too busy "celebrating" the Quell victory to help the thing, and it died flopping helplessly on the sand, like a lost relic from another age.

Kind of like me.

With those pleasant thoughts in mind, I do believe it's time for another drink.

Moving my fingers carefully so they don't get cut off, I take the bottle around the neck and lift it to my lips. The swig is longer than I normally would dare with this stuff. Effie hasn't been here in weeks so I'm back to white liquor. Pretty soon, even this is gonna run out. With Ripper dead and gone, no one here makes it the way they should, and it wasn't exactly the Elixir of Life before. I'm pretty certain our newest amateur distiller makes stuff that could take the paint off a house. It burns for hours, and it makes me throw up half the time, despite the fact that I've been drinking enough to kill a lesser man for a bit shy of half a century.

But for this conversation, I'm gonna need it.

I try to hide my gasp as the alcohol sears its way down my esophagus. "Sweetheart, don't you wanna talk to your mom or Annie or something? Or Johanna? Or literally  _any_  woman? I don't know what you expect  _me_  to say." Her nose scrunches up and her eyebrows furrow. It isn't easy for her to be here, so she must be in some kind of a state, but that doesn't necessarily matter. I'm not equipped to deal with this.

Clearly, she doesn't agree, because she begins talking anyway, "I can't  _do_ things. I'm stuck in the house, or the bakery, or wherever Peeta is. He's so attentive it's driving me crazy. I just want to be  _alone_."

"So you're talking to me in the few minutes you have away from him? Great plan."

She stiffens, and I know I need to back off.

"It's not that I'm sick of him, damnit!" her eyes are fiery and furious, as though I'd ever even dare to  _suggest_ such a thing, which, I might add, I didn't, but she's always putting words in people's mouths, even mine. "I'm sick of  _myself_. I need space, and I can't have it, because it's worse when I'm alone. I get… scared."

"I'd imagine having something growing inside of you is pretty terrifying. Had a kidney stone once. Was damn awful. Didn't name it, though."

She's upset, that much is obvious, but it's a lot more serious than her normal, "Someone asked me for my autograph today," or "Plutarch won't stop calling," or "Nick and Alder smeared honey all over my bow," complaints, yet somehow less than the rare times when she's just crawled out of a hiding place and I know before she even says that it's something like "We had a fight because he knows how to love and I don't," or "I dreamt about the woman I shot in the Capitol, when will it ever stop?" or the worst one "Almost everyone we touched is dead."

This fear is… normal. I guess? Damned if I know what normal is. But I think women are supposed to be afraid when they're pregnant. And Katniss Everdeen has a lot more to be scared of than most.

"What if I can't love it?" she blurts out.

I snort, "That's stupid."

It is. Probably one of the dumbest things I've ever heard. She thinks she can't love people right, but she's, of course, completely wrong. Even if we didn't have the historical Primrose example, I see the million little things she does for the boy all the time. Half of them I don't even know if  _he_  picks up on, she's so damn sneaky about it. The less likely he is to notice, the more likely she is to do something sweet for him. But it's not limited to the kid. I see how in the dead of winter when she sure as hell isn't hunting, she hikes out to the woods to check up on Rory Hawthorne even though he's about a quarter crazy and as conversational as a hollow log. Little Posy, well, I guess she isn't so little now, but the younger girl thinks of her as the closest thing to a sister she has. Even I'm always fed and generally cared for, even though I haven't cooked anything, or even bought food in probably twelve years. It's not only Peeta who makes certain that happens.

Katniss knows how to love people extremely well. She just doesn't know how to do it  _openly_.

Can't blame her there.

My response didn't earn any glares, she just looks even more worried. "What if I love it too much?"

"Then you can join the damn club," I say without thinking.

Her eyebrows shoot up so high I can see about four hundred wrinkles in her forehead. Guess I went a little too heavy on the bottle, saying things like that.

"What?" I shrug, as though what just came out of my mouth was not a big deal at all. "You think it's easy, having kids? Obviously you don't, you waited long enough to have 'em. It's a risk. The thing could literally die any second, messing with ovens, climbing trees…" I'm digging myself an even bigger hole here. "Kids are nothing but trouble. But then, so's everyone else. You're definitely gonna love the thing too much. That's the way it works. Either too much, or not enough. Never just right."

She's staring at me, lips curled, like I said something that's going to make her either cry or throw up. I'm not certain which. Being pregnant has made her so damn  _emotional_.

"When you talk like that I feel guilty," she murmurs softly, so unlike herself that I wonder if the kid managed to put more than just a some little version of himself in there. They certainly go at it often enough. I wish they'd close the windows in their room. You'd think in winter, maybe. But no. Man can't sit and look at the stars and have a solitary, tortured drink with his geese without hearing the two of them trying to break their bed in half. I'm not sure I want to meet this kid when I quite possibly overheard its conception.

Alright, I don't want to think about that.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I ask instead.

She seems to realize that she's accidentally crossed the barrier of sentimentality that we normally treat with something pretty close to reverence. "When you talk like a father," she mutters. Oh. Guilty. Because her dad is dead, but somehow I've become a kind of substitute. I wasn't exactly a willing participant. At least… I don't think I was.

I guess I'm not sure.

"I ain't your daddy, sweetheart," I scoff loudly, tightening my throat around whatever other sentimental nonsense threatens to jump out of it.

"Never said you were," she responds angrily, trying to cross her arms defensively, but finding that she can't span either her stomach or her chest, because everything's just so big. She stands suddenly, frustration spilling off of her in waves that are nearly contagious. I wish the boy were here. He'd be hovering the instant she stood up, which would annoy her even more. It'd be fun to watch and I'd be out of the line of fire. I wonder how she managed to convince him to give her space. Actually, I'm guessing he does whenever she asks, but she doesn't ask because, like she said, she doesn't  _really_ want to be alone.

"I don't want to be pregnant anymore!" she bellows as she storms towards her house.

"You're the one who didn't keep her legs closed, sweetheart!" I yell as she goes.

There is a flash and a thud. I turn and see her knife quivering in the post that holds up the porch. It's inches away from my face.

Nice to see that pregnancy has had no effect on her aim.

* * *

A few days later, the kid wakes me from my midmorning nap by physically lifting me off the ground and standing me up before I'm even a third of the way awake. For once, I'm too shocked to even pull my knife. I'm too busy trying not to fall flat on my face. The room is spinning.

"Go to town and get the midwife," he says, walking towards the door. Doesn't even ask. Just says. As though his method of reviving me weren't belittling enough.

"I'm not your damn errand boy." I try with little success to get my balance. It's hard to look adequately affronted when I'm staggering around.

He turns and his eyes are like icicles, but his voice is even, matter-of-fact. "Katniss is in labor. She's been having contractions for three hours, and just decided to tell me. I'm not leaving her for any longer than the time it takes to wake you. Get the midwife  **now** or I'll break all of your fingers, and  _then_ you'll run to town and get her." He's just about out of the door, when he bends over to pick something up, then turns and lobs it directly at my head. He doesn't even close the door behind him, just stomps off. Still half asleep, it takes a few moments to realize that he's just hit me in the face with my shoes.

"What's the deal with the threats?" I mutter.

I guess I'm running to town to get the midwife. Hopefully someone there knows who the hell that is.

When I finally get my shoes on and stumble out the door, I see the woman of the hour herself, pacing in the yard. She doesn't look in too much pain. Just really uncomfortable.

"Boy made it sound like the kid was halfway out," I call to her from my porch. Clearly I don't need to rush this. Pretty sure babies take their damn time being born, especially the first ones. She doesn't say anything, just grunts. The closer I get, the more obvious it is. She's real scared.

"Where is he?" I ask. The kid who burst in my house ten minutes ago would not have left her out here wandering in the yard. A crash from their kitchen, followed by a string of language that's almost enough to make  _me_  blush answers my question.

"He's nervous," she gulps out as her body is seized by a contraction. I finish making my way over to her. I don't know what would really help in this scenario. If something was trying to claw its way out of me and change my life forever, I don't think I'd want to be touched any. But my hand finds itself on her shoulder anyway. She grabs it and squeezes so hard the little bones are moving around. I let her. Figure it's the least I can do. "I told him I really needed cheese buns. He needs something to keep him occupied, or he's going to have an episode," That is something no one wants. I think if he missed the birth of his child because he was busy flipping out, he might do something pretty drastic. "They're nine minutes apart. I'm not even close to having this baby yet," she continues. There's an edge of hysterical panic in her voice. "I'm not certain it's ever coming out."

She still calls the kid "it," sometimes, even now. I guess I do too. Makes things a little less terrifying. I don't know why  _I_  have any reason to be terrified though. Don't have any use for little kids. Never have. Not too pleasant to imagine every child you see in the throes of an agonizing death that you had to lead them into, so I've kept my distance.

"Wish Hazelle was here," she grunts, and I'm not surprised that she wants her instead of her mother, who for reasons I'm not privy to, hasn't been involved much in this whole… ordeal. Unfortunately, though, the Hawthorne matriarch has been in Two for several months now, helping her son and daughter-out-of-law with their two-year-old twins, Jasper and Juniper. Not only were they an accident, just like their other kid, but Effie tells me they're damn-near feral, climbing curtains, ripping apart furniture, eating everything in the cabinets, and otherwise generally destroying the house in the moments when they aren't escaping into the cliffs. Hazelle was called in to help when Alder, her ten-year-old grandson, caught Johanna on the verge of dangling his cackling little brother out the window by his foot. Somehow there were feathers and molasses involved. The specific details were a little fuzzy by the time the story got to me.

"What'dya need her for? It's not like you're alone out here." I pat the girl's back, trying to be encouraging, but just sounding sarcastic. Old habits, I guess.

She glares, "Because she's not an  _idiot_."

I shrug, and my efforts to be helpful are rewarded by the door bursting open and Peeta stomping into the yard, "Haymitch, don't you have  _somewhere_ to be?" His face is nearly purple. It's pretty impressive, how far he's come, managing to be this upset without having an episode. Also pretty inconvenient for me. With all the energy he's expending in that kitchen, he could have run to town and back four times.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going."

"Katniss, are you okay? Do you need anything?" he asks in an entirely different voice.

She smiles a pained little smile, "I just need to walk, but I would  _really_ love a cheese bun, Peeta."

He gives me a pointed glare and slams the door behind him as he goes back into the kitchen. I know she's not gonna eat a damn thing. It's nice to know that there will at least be some hot pastries waiting for me when I get back.

The trip to town is a wobbly one because, come to think of it, I don't think I've actually eaten anything since lunch yesterday. I realize halfway down the hill that I still don't know who the midwife is. Luckily, the first person I run into is Sally Alberts, Thom's oldest kid. They have about twenty of them at this point. She's old enough to communicate properly, maybe about eight? Her mom just popped out another baby, herself, so at this point she should probably know who came by the house when the kid arrived. There's a little flower stand set up outside the bakery, and she's manning it, all by herself. She looks Seam, but she has her mother's hazel eyes. She also doesn't  _really_ look Seam, because in my mind, Seam means emaciated, and this girl is, well, pretty robust, to put it gently. Thom's farm is damn near enormous now, and she gets to eat as much as she wants, whenever she wants. He even has a few cows, so she gets to have milk on a daily basis.

It's hard to imagine a kid looking better, frankly. Don't really like being around kids, but it does soothe the soul, not seeing them starving. She wouldn't make it five minutes in the arena, though.

"Hey peanut," I say.

She scrunches up her nose with distaste, "My name is Sally, Mr. Abernathy. Two Ls, one Y, no E."

"Okay, then, no-E-Sally," I make an exaggerated bow, "I have a question. Who delivered your mom's baby?"

"She did," the girl says, taking a disinterested sip out of a glass of water.

Not what I meant.

"No, I mean, who did the delivering? You know, like a midwife or a doctor?"

The girl sighs with annoyance, "She did, Mr. Abernathy."

It's at this point that I realize that I've left the house without a flask, or anything really to drink.

"Look, kid. I know where babies come from. I know your mother was involved. But who else helped?"

She hunches over and looks up at me, like I'm basically the stupidest thing she's ever laid her eyes on, "My  _dad_."

This is what it's come to. Haymitch Abernathy, Victor, Mentor, Rebel leader, once a ruthlessly brilliant young man, now a worldly-wise, calculating, albeit drunken, old one, chatting about the facts of life with a chubby, eight-year-old girl. If Chaff could see this…

"Thanks kid," I mutter.

"Maybe you should ask my uncle," she offers with a shrug. "He's in the bakery."

I figure I might as well. The longer I take here, the more likely it is that the father-to-be is gonna lose it in my general direction when I get back. And then a few hours later Katniss will tear me to pieces, newborn hanging on for dear life.

The bell on the door jangles when I open it, and there is Vick Hawthorne, M.D., PhD, Director of Research and Development at the most advanced pharmacological institution in Panem, hunched over the counter, icing tiny little teddy bears on sugar cookies, a look of intense concentration on his narrow face. Why he's at the bakery instead of his real job is beyond me. I can only guess he's helping Peeta out.

"Why hello, Haymitch!" he grins, pushing up his horn-rimmed glasses as he stands. "I was under the mistaken impression that you never left the quiet sanctity of Victor's Village unless liquor or Miss Trinket were involved."

Age has not made this kid less of a pain in the ass. "Shut your trap, Hawthorne."

He sits down the bag of icing and holds up his hands in surrender, "No need to get heated! I was merely making a convivial observation."

"Oh? Well, let me make one, then: That bow tie makes you look like a damn fool."

He doesn't react in anger, merely grins. "I assure you, Haymitch, my wife does not agree. She's  _particularly_  fond of taking it off…"

I lift up my hand as well, but this is in warning. Something about the way I'm looking at him manages to achieve the impossible, and shuts him up. Today's pretty quickly turning into the day where I have to visualize every single couple I know going at it, and it's basically disgusting. I enjoy a ribald jape at someone's expense as much as any man, but this is just taking things to an entirely different level.

A level where I'm forced to think about Vick Hawthorne's scrawny ass is not a level where I ever want to spend any length of time.

"Who delivered Susie's baby? Or, forget that, who's the damn midwife?" I change the subject to the real reason I'm here at all.

His face lights up in delight and he runs around the counter and grabs my shoulders, "Has Katniss begun having contractions? How far apart are they? How has she described the pain? Has the baby dropped yet?" He looks like he's ready to start taking notes.

"So  _you're_ the midwife then?"

Vick turns a bit green at the insinuation and drops his arms, "Heavens no! I never touch patients. I'm more of a biochemist than a medical doctor. Pure research."

I sigh with frustration, and slam the counter with my fist, before I grab him by the collar of his starched white shirt and pull him down to eye level. "Vick, I don't care if you're a damn exotic dancer. Who takes care of the births in this town?"

"My sister-in-law," he gulps, eyes wide. Even scared, though, he can't seem to keep his mouth shut. "She actually delivered Lindy herself a few months ago, well, with Thom's assistance, I should say. The baby was somewhat premature, and eager to enter the world before someone arrived from the nearest hospital."

Oh. I guess that little girl wasn't lying.

I don't let go of him, "And where  _exactly_  would I find Susie right about now?"

"At home," he all but whimpers.

I let go, and he collapses against the counter. His neat shirt is rumpled, and his apron is askew.

"Thanks, kid. Have fun with those cookies."

The walk to the Alberts' farm is not that long, but it takes enough time to start making me more actively aware of the fact that Katniss is actually having a baby, and she does probably need some help in the process. So I jog most of the way, even though my kidneys scream at me and my knees grind the whole time. Out front, Thom is guiding a plow behind an enormous, greying horse. A little boy walks behind him, picking up rocks that the plow turns up and putting them in a satchel. Behind the little boy, is a toddler of uncertain gender, who seems to be picking up something else that the plow turns up, and sticking what is discovered in his or her mouth. As I get closer, I realize the kid is eating worms.

Children are absolutely disgusting. I've gotta hand it to the kid for being resourceful, though. Bug eating is definitely a survival skill.

Thom sees me and stops his horse, ruffling the tawny hair of the boy behind him before he holds his hand out in front of the mouth of the dark haired worm-eater. The kid spits out a mouthful.

They're still wriggling.

Good thing I'm accustomed to living in filth, otherwise I'd be physically sick.

Thom scatters them across the field and then picks up the kid, trotting over to me, while yelling something I can't make out to the other one. He runs into the house. I can't help but notice how useful that speed would be.

"Katniss needs Susie then?" he asks, shaking my hand with his dark, weather-worn one. The toddler looks at me suspiciously, a line of snot running almost into its mouth. I still can't tell if it's a boy or girl.

I nod, "Peeta won't leave the house. Insisted on sending me. Took a damn long time to walk down here. "

Thom grins, "Ya coulda jus' called, ya know. They gave me a phone, seein' how I'm mayor 'n all."

"The kid know about that?" I say darkly.

"Not sure. Maybe? He hasn't been too great at remembering things lately. Pretty stressed about the baby." The worm-eater starts to rub dirty hands all over his (or her) father's face. "Sent Sam to get her. She'll be out momentarily."

"What's this one's name, then?" I ask in an attempt to find out the gender of this child so I can stop referring to it as an "it."

Ruffling the kid's hair, he responds, "Casey."

Guess I'm never gonna know.

Susie marches out of the house towards us, a leather satchel around her shoulder and the fattest baby I've ever seen on her hip. She hands the baby to her husband wordlessly, who holds the two children with ease, and kisses his cheek. Without even a how-are-you, she heads over to the barn and a moment later, she's galloping across the field on an extravagance of a chestnut horse, honey-colored hair flying behind her. She looks damn gorgeous.

"She took to farming pretty well," I sniff.

Thom nods proudly, "Yep."

Even walking as slowly as possible, the trip home takes less time than I'd like. There is an unpleasant feeling in my gut that has nothing to do with alcohol or hunger. I feel like I need to be there for this, that I won't be able to forgive myself if I'm not. I also want to lock my door behind me and get so smashed I can't even remember what a baby is. I stop at the flower stand again, and make an impulse buy from the hostile eight-year-old that I instantly feel strange about. When I finally reach the top of the hill, the kid is pacing back and forth on the porch, tying and untying a length of rope. The horse is tied down nearby in the yard, so I know Susie is there.

"You alright, boy?" I call out, sitting my purchase somewhere that he won't see.

He nods, but doesn't stop with the knots.

"She alright?"

He stops momentarily, and swallows hard, "She's taking a bath, and talking to Susie. It's still going to be awhile. She's fine. She's fine. She's fine…" He continues to softly repeat this to himself like a mantra. I've seen him like this only twice. Once was in the Capitol right after Coin's assassination. The other time was when Katniss nearly froze to death shortly after they got married.

"Maybe you should just let go?" I shrug. "Get it over with."

" _NO!_ " He hits the railing with his fist so hard that it breaks. Looking down at what he's done, his voice cracks and he snaps his eyes closed, "I need to be here for this. I can't go away. I have to be here."

I know he has pills, and even an injection, that will make this stop – Aurelius told me about them years ago, when he first came back – but they only work because they're powerful sedatives. And of course he doesn't want to be sedated during the birth of his first child. So we have to do something else. I have to do something else.

"Alright then, boy. Let's talk," I climb up on to the porch and grab him by the shoulders, pulling him down on the steps beside me. Can't really do this as well as I used to, since his shoulders are almost twice as broad as mine. I've seen him lift four hundred pounds like it was nothing. At this point, he could probably take down Finnick Odair bare-handed, if he were still around.

But now he's on the verge of crying, and I don't know what the hell to do about it.

"Look, when you get worked like this, you make lists right? So make a list."

"About what?"

I don't have a damn clue.

"I know you wanted this kid for years. So what are you gonna do with it? I don't know why people want kids. What they're even good for. But you clearly have some idea."

"I want to teach her to bake," he says quickly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"So it's a girl then?"

"We don't know. I'd rather be surprised, and Katniss, well, I don't think she could handle knowing. Almost everything is overwhelming for her, she's so scared. But I always think of the baby as a little version of her. So a girl."

He seems to be calming down a little. "What else you gonna do with her then?"

"Paint. Take walks. Sing songs," I grimace at this. The boy could wake the dead with his caterwauling. He notices the face I'm making and grins through his tears. "Play hide-and-seek. Tell her the names of the stars. Look at clouds. Brush her hair. Dance…"

I nod. I guess those things don't sound completely awful, though they're not really my thing.

"Tell her about my family. About Katniss' family. Let her know how much she's wanted. How much she's loved."

He pauses.

"Keep her safe."

I put my hand on his knee before I push myself up, "You're not the only one who'll be doing that, boy."

There's no need to turn around as I walk to my own house. He'll be alright.

Inside, I leave the door open, so I can hear any commotion that comes from their house. That sorted, I dig through the pile of junk that has accumulated in Hazelle's absence to find my phone. Once I find it, I dial the only number I know.

"Haymitch! Peeta told me! Is everything alright? Is the baby fine? Is it a boy or girl? Oh Haymitch, why didn't you call  _earlier_? I've been on pins and needles!"

"Calm down, Princess. Nothing's happened yet, except maybe the boy's lost ten years of his life from worry. And I didn't call because I was off getting the midwife. Just…" I need to tell her, so she doesn't worry over the reason for this call, but the truth's pretty damn humiliating, "I wanted to talk."

" _You_  wanted to talk?" she sounds doubtful. She's usually the one who does the talking, gossiping about everyone we know. Good-intentioned always, but damn if it isn't annoying half the time.

"Our kids are having kids," I mutter. "Feels off."

"People have children, Haymitch," she says matter-of-factly, businesslike manner of the consummate professional taking over. "It's what normal people do."

I sigh angrily, "Yeah, well, we've never exactly been normal, though, have we?"

There's a small little noise, and I can tell that she's gnawing on her pouty bottom lip. I wish she were here. For a lot of reasons, not just because of those lips. But it's certainly part of it.

"No, we're not, but shouldn't this stil be happy? For goodness sakes, it's what you, what we fought for! I didn't…" her voice gets shrill and panicky, "I didn't spend time in two different prisons with two different," she gasps and makes a choking noise, "sets of _guards_  just so they could waste away in Twelve doing nothing!"

Now I really wish she were here. "Eff, no, don't talk like that. Don't think about those things. You'll only…"

"My house and office are clean," she interrupts, no-nonsense tone drowning out the tears in her voice. "No pills. Don't worry about me. You're the one who's upset. You're the one who called."

"I hate kids," I answer darkly.

"That's a barefaced lie, Haymitch Abernathy," I can almost see her hair flouncing as she speaks.

I grit my teeth, "Every kid I see, I see all the ways he could die. All the ways he could kill. His strengths, weaknesses, all of it. They're all still tributes to me. I don't want to see another one. Especially one that I…"

"That you care about? Haymitch, the Mellark baby is not going to be reaped! There are no more Reapings! What exactly do you think I've been spending the past two decades doing out here? Painting my nails?"

"Can you  _promise_ that, princess? Can you look those two in the eyes and swear that you've made it so that nothing will ever hurt their baby? Cause I sure as hell can't."

"No," she admits readily, reminding me why I called her in the first place. "But you can either deal with that, and be involved in the child's life, or you can act like a coward and hide away in your little dungeon of a house."

"How do you still manage to be such a spitfire?" I chuckle, despite myself.

"It's likely because I've been speaking with you regularly for twenty years," she says airily. "Now, I have a meeting to attend, so if there's nothing else, please just call me when the baby arrives," I can hear her laugh a little, and she becomes overly excited once again, "Really, Haymitch, I am just about to  _burst_. Do you know what they plan to name it? Peeta never will tell me."

"Girl won't even think about names till she has that thing wrapped up tight in her arms. But I'll let you know, princess. Don't you worry."

"Haymitch Abernathy, worrying has been my job all my life. I'm not about to stop on your account," with that, she hangs up.

I've just put the phone back, when there is a knock on my doorframe. It's Susie. Her hair is wrapped around her head, and little tendrils are falling all over the place, as though she's just had a grueling experience. "Katniss needs to talk to you," she exhales heavily.

"Me? Why?" I throw myself onto the couch. I do not want to go anywhere near that girl when she's in labor.

"Because she's terrified," the woman states.

"Doesn't she have a husband to deal with that?" I mutter into the cushions.

The midwife clicks her tongue, "I have been to enough births to know when the father needs to… take a break. Even if I didn't know about Peeta's situation, it'd still be pretty clear that this is most  _definitely_  one of those times. He's finally calmed down, but if he goes in their room and sees how worked up she is, he's likely to lose it all over again."

I turn and look at her, "How are you keeping him away? He's not exactly the type to stay out."

Her grin is so big it threatens to jump off her face and run around the room. "He's preparing a complicated remedy in the kitchen. I told him I desperately needed it to rub on her stomach but had run out last night."

"What's he  _actually_  doing?" I scoff. I sincerely doubt she'd show up at a house without everything she needed.

She shrugs, "Making me some ointment to put on my sore nipples. I'm sure Katniss will need it too. It's my standard worried-husband procedure."

I like this girl.

"I don't know where you managed to get so ballsy, shy little Susie, but I'd take my hat off to you if I ever was distinguished enough to wear one," I say, sitting up.

"Having six kids teaches you a thing or two," she shrugs again, as though no-big-deal is such a part of her life at this point that she just thinks it automatically. "Now hurry up. I don't know how long I can manage to keep him occupied. This isn't even my job, you know. I'm supposed to catch babies, not corral anxious fathers."

She seems mighty proficient at both.

I follow her over to the house, and we go in through the back door, passing Peeta who is stirring a pretty foul-smelling concoction over the stove. Before I am all the way through, he grabs my arm and stops me.

"Take this," he holds out a syringe with a disturbingly large needle.

I know what this is about. "Better than a frying pan to the back of the head, hm?"

He glares at me. Fifteen years, and I'm still not allowed to joke about that. "You have to be there. To make sure I can handle it. To stop me if I can't." The pain in his voice makes me cringe. I can't imagine how humiliated he must feel. I'll be there. I can't do anything else.

"You'll handle it, kid. Which is good, 'cause I'm not thrilled with the idea of sticking a needle in your ass."

He laughs. It's the first I've heard it all day. I slap him on the back and head up the stairs. I've gotta make this quick, because he's sure as hell not staying out much longer.

When I get to the room I find her curled up on her side under the covers. Even as big as she is in her current condition, she still looks tiny in the wide expanse of the bed. I can see the soft vibration of her trembling, and then she goes stiff, probably having a contraction. I don't know – I've never seen someone have a baby before. But I sit on the edge of the bed next to her.

Hell, I even take her hand.

"How's it going, sweetheart?"

She looks up at me and her eyes are filled with nothing but fear, "I'm not ready. The baby can't come. It has to stay safe."

"We both know that's not an option."

Her trembling gets worse, "I can't lose anyone else. I can't. And I can never protect them enough. Never. They're all broken or lost because of me."

"Sweetheart, it wasn't your fault," before I realize I'm doing it, my other hand is stroking her hair. She flicks her eyes up curiously, but says nothing. Neither of us is ever going to mention this again. "But you're right. You can't protect them. But you're the one who decided to do this. It was your choice. You didn't have to. So there musta been something stronger than the fear."

She squeezes my hand tightly. I don't think she's going to answer, just sit here wrapped up in worry, but she finally speaks, "In the Quell. Peeta, he… I had a dream. About a place where his child could be safe. It made me fight. Made the thought of dying feel worth it. But it's not finished if Peeta never gets to have a child."

"So you're doing this for him?" I know this is gonna egg her on.

"No!" she shakes her head angrily, squeezing my fingers till I can't feel them anymore. "Well, yes, I mean, he wants a baby so badly but… I… I've dreamed about that same child for fifteen years. I couldn't… couldn't let it go. I can't explain it, I'm not good with words. I just… finally realized I  _wanted_  it. And I never wanted one before. So," she looks down at her stomach, "here it is." Her eyes are wide with terror, but something else had joined them.

Joy.

"So let her come then," I shrug.

She frowns, "You don't know if it's a girl."

I stand up, "Well, you can just rub it in if I'm wrong. But I've got a feeling. Now, can we let the boy in? Midwife's got him downstairs making some kind of nipple cream. Course, he doesn't know that…"

She laughs, and then winces, a look of shock on her face.

"You alright, sweetheart?"

Her voice is hushed, disbelieving, "That one came a lot more quickly."

I've just opened the door, when she yells. The fear and joy and utter disbelief in her voice has only been there one time that I've ever heard. As I stand off to the side, letting Peeta and Susie through, I can't stop thinking about that idiot girl, screaming her district partner's name from the heights of a tree.

Watching a man watch his wife give birth is a strange experience, I gotta say. I have to be alert, ready to step in if he slips away. I know he won't, but I also owe it to him to be there just in case. So from the comfort of a chair in the corner, I watch his face and listen. There's not much to hear, only her quiet grunts and the occasional soft whimper. She's tough as nails, and after having her ribs regrown and the time in the burn unit, I doubt there's any sort of pain that she couldn't handle. What he says to her is softly whispered, only for her to hear, but the gentle light in his eyes never wavers, not once. Tomorrow, I'll give him hell for wasting my time, but today I'll let him have this moment. He's certainly waited long enough.

Susie is flawless. I hardly hear her, she just smoothly moves throughout the room, moving Katniss into more comfortable positions, and providing encouragement when it's needed. I'm pretty glad she's here for that, and also because it makes it a lot less awkward for me to be here. I realize that I haven't had a drink in twelve hours.

I've been too distracted.

She doesn't ask the kid to catch the baby, and I know why. He can't. Maybe he can handle the rest of it, but I'd imagine seeing… well… everything going on down there would be too surreal and generally bloody to risk. So his eyes never for a moment leave the girl's face. She never screams. Not once.

And I can't help it. I remember them. I remember every single one and how they died. With no booze, I can't make it go away. I see them, and I see this and I see the lives that they could have had. That they never had. That I couldn't give to them.

Something wet drops onto my hand and I realize that I'm crying for the first time in forty years. Damn it.

But while I've been busy thinking, there's been a lot of noise and action. The kid's face has changed from love to awe, glowing in the orange light from the setting sun that reflects off the walls in the room. There are tears there too, but I don't think he even realizes. I don't think he is aware of anything else in the world other than the one thing he's looking at. I'm pretty certain I know what it is.

Then there's a shrill cry that echoes through the entire house.

And I'm certain.

I excuse myself without looking. No way he's having an episode now.

* * *

I'm sitting on the front porch, grasping and ungrasping my fingers around the edges of the thing that I bought earlier when Susie opens the door, satchel on, ready to leave.

"They're wondering where you went," she smiles. "Katniss figured you ran off and started drinking."

I shrug. No point in telling her why I couldn't stay.

She walks backwards towards her horse. "They want you to come up, if you're willing," she calls as she goes.

Gift in hand, I go inside and slowly walk up the steps. I take my time, because I'm inexplicably nervous, so I look at the paintings and sketches that are hung all along the stairs. They're pictures of everyone we know, even me. I guess it ain't half bad. It's black and white, just ink. I'm sitting on my porch at night, light on, taking a swig from a bottle while I'm looking at the stars. I seem… old, but not really. It's pretty damn depressing, despite the kid's obvious skill.

Enough of this. I need to go up these stairs and get this over with. See the kid so I can tell Effie its name, then drink till I forget it.

I open the door without knocking, which is probably a mistake, but at this point, there ain't much of the girl that I haven't seen. Lucky for all of us, they're just cuddling on the bed. She's holding a bundle wrapped in a bright yellow blanket. I can't even see the head to figure out the hair color. The kid is behind her, arms wrapped around them both.

She looks at me and I don't think I've ever seen her smile a smile that big.

"You were right," she croaks. I can tell she's been weeping.

"I'm always right," I grunt, standing awkwardly where I am. "But it'd help to know what about."

"I already love her too much."

I shrug, and hold out the primroses that Sally Alberts sold to me. "Figured the room could use a little plant life."

The girl smiles, and then cries, and then smiles, and for a long moment, I just stand there like a damn fool while the kid pulls her close and whispers things in her ear. I'm worried for a minute that they're both irritated with me for bringing the dead into this situation, but no one seems to be yelling, so maybe it's alright. He stands, and then takes the bundle from her. She almost doesn't give it up, but he whispers something again, something that makes her laugh.

Then he's walking towards me. "Haymitch, allow me to introduce you to Hope." He's holding her like he's been doing it all his life, but before I can stop him, suddenly he's taken the flowers out of my hands and filled them with baby instead. It's like holding nothing, she's so tiny, but I can feel her rooting towards my chest, snuggling close. I look down. The blanket has fallen back, exposing a pair of the bluest eyes I've ever seen underneath a shock of curly, dark hair. She looks at me. I look at her.

And then it happens. Something I thought would never happen again.

I fall in love.

"Hey there, firefly," I mutter gruffly.


	3. One

"Why won't she just go to  _sleep_?" are the first words I hear all day. Well, words that weren't muttered to the geese and coming out of my own mouth, I guess, because there have been a lot of those. Against my better intentions, I'm turning into a deranged old man. I like the geese, though. They're like people. Only less aggravating.

These words, though, are from the boy who's propping himself up against the side of my house, looking unpleasantly similar to the way he looked when they pulled him out of that prison. There are purple bags under his eyes, and a certain manic, crazed look within them.

He's usually generally aware of how lucky he thinks he is, in fact, he brags about it all the time. So he has to be under a huge amount of stress to be doing anything that sounds even remotely like complaining. But I know what he's talking about with the baby – I've heard her crying across the yard at all hours, and the frustrated noises that the girl makes in response when it's four am. It's such a normal situation that I should be laughing at him, really, like I would any other sap who was crazy enough to have kids, but instead I feel a sharp tension that starts in my neck and radiates all the way down my spine. I don't want him to look like this. Not ever again.

Also what does he think I know about his problem?

"Well, given my extensive experience in child-rearing, I'd have to say I don't have a damn clue," I say, scattering some leftover moldy bread for the birds to fight over. Not really good for them, but they seem to like it anyway. Nearly poke each other's eyes out trying to get at it, even though they're already overfed.

Yep. They're definitely like people.

The kid doesn't take the hint, and crouches against the side of the house, "I don't know what else to do. We've stopped putting her down for naps at all, but it doesn't matter. Last night I rolled around with her on the floor for ages after dinner to wear her out. But she just," he yanks at his hair like he's gonna rip it all out, and I know this must be serious, because he hasn't done that in sixteen years, " _refuses_  to sleep. We put her down, she cries. We put her in bed with us, she cries. She can't even play anymore, she's so tired, but she won't sleep. No one can nap. She's just fussing all the time. Last night Katniss suggested we drug her with sleep syrup."

I shrug. Not like that hasn't worked for her before. Actually…

It's maybe a long shot, but I have an idea. I grab him by the shoulder and pull him into the house behind me. Now that Hazelle's back in Twelve, the place is clean again. I don't know why she still comes over here, though. Her and Posy alone in that house have more money than they know what to do with, and on top of that I know that at least two of her boys send her more on a weekly basis. Even if they didn't, the crazy other one could probably feed them, as well as half the district single-handed. But her cleaning my house makes everyone feel like I need less looking-after in other ways, so I let it be and they let me be.

The kid's so tired he doesn't argue, or even question what I'm doing; just stands, leaning against the table, staring off into space. I open the cabinet and there before me, glimmering like jewels, are the ten bottles of high-end liquor that Effie sent yesterday, accompanied by her regrets at not being able to join them. These finest products of barley, corn, potatoes, sugar cane, juniper berries, grapes and whatever else it is that manages to ferment into alcohol will have to fill up my time all alone. That's fine. Probably best anyway. Alone is nearly always better.

I grab the whiskey and pull out the cork, then I stop. This is really good stuff. The best. What I drink when I want to stay mostly sober to enjoy the flavor or get incredibly drunk because nothing brings oblivion quite so well. It goes down really smooth, and tastes like woodsmoke. Any of this other crap would work for what he needs it for. She probably can't even tell the difference. She's just a baby.

But I pour a third of the bottle into a jar.

"Give her this," I say, sitting it down heavily in front of him.

The sound jerks him awake, and he catches himself on the table just before he falls to the ground.

Bleary-eyed and twitching he asks, "You want me to give my one-year-old daughter alcohol?"

"Yeah, pour all of it in her bottle and she'll sleep just fine," I sneer. "It's not exactly brain surgery. Rub it on her gums. She's teething. Molars probably."

He's looking at me strangely, and I blame it on his lack of sleep. Or maybe he's wondering how I know. I haven't seen her in almost two weeks. She's probably gained a pound since then. Effie asks about her every other day almost, and I make stuff up. I'd be lying if I didn't say I wish I knew. But there's just… I can't. I just can't.

Alone is nearly always better.

I reach back towards the counter for the bottle, thinking that the baby and I can both enjoy the benefits of this stuff tonight, but my shaky fingers knock it to the ground with a tremendous crash. I look down for a single moment of fury, and when I glance back up, the kid's on the floor. I curse myself for being so clumsy and startling him, especially in this condition.

There are rules for dealing with Peeta Mellark, and the two biggest ones are make sure he gets enough sleep, and don't ever, ever get him drunk. Apparently the brain treats the two states pretty similarly, and whether it's with exhaustion or liquor, he's much more likely to have a flashback if he's out of his mind. But I don't think babies think much about those things. Little Hope's been breaking the first rule for days.

It was only a matter of time. At least it's happening here.

The encouraging thing, if you can call it that, is this is the first full-fledged episode he's had in, I dunno, maybe three years. Most of the time he just grabs a chair and rides them out until they dissipate into nothingness. The more violent, transformative sort rarely happen anymore, and this is most definitely the milder form of that kind. But I hate watching this type more than the worst ones. With those, he just turns into a different person, albeit a pretty violently insane one, and you get to watch him argue himself down. But when he has more control the kid, basically the most articulate human I've ever stumbled across, gibbers nonsense and rolls around. They've done scans. He's fighting some kind of war in his mind, and he's winning, I guess, because there's not even a chance for anyone to get hurt when he's seizing on the floor. The good Dr. Applethorpe has tried multiple times to impress upon me (and every other damn fool who will listen) "the astounding resilience and strength" of his brain, especially in these situations.

But I don't care if he's writing sonnets in there: when he's like this he looks like an animal to the rest of us and it's a bitch to have to witness.

I can't really see him because he's fallen under the table, but I can hear the chairs taking the brunt of his assault as he smashes and rolls against them. The noises he makes are awful. I'm glad the girl isn't around to hear them so I don't have to see the guilt in her face. She hates this as much as I do, and manages to somehow feel even more responsible for it, even though I was the one who got him locked up in the first place. Other than knocking him out, which is pointless when he's not a threat, there's nothing to do but watch, knowing I can't lift a damn finger to help.

It's a feeling I'm pretty used to, though I'm glad to admit I've steadily felt it less and less over the past decade.

The minute and a half it takes for him to stop thrashing feels more like half a day, but finally it's over. I round the table to check on him. He's lying sprawled out on his back, consciousness as shattered and spilled out as my bottle of good whiskey. Strange to say, I'm less worried about the latter. His nose is bloody, but otherwise, he seems undamaged. At least physically. I don't know what kind of state he's going to be in when he wakes up. He might as well get rest now.

The jar on the table is pretty miraculously unshaken, and I look at it for a long minute. The rest of my best stuff is all gone and, after what I've seen, this is just about enough to get me through the rest of the late afternoon into the evening. Shaking my head, I leave it and reach into the cabinet for the cheapest liquor I have. The bottle's open, and poised on my lips, when the kid begins to stir. It doesn't take long for him to regain consciousness completely. Which, I suppose, is huge improvement compared to the way he was at the beginning. But still not completely healed. That's never gonna happen.

"The baby! Katniss?" he calls out desperately with a voice that barely works, crashing into the chairs again as he tries to get up. Even though everyone is fine, his panic makes me sick to my stomach. Waking up to the fears he can never really shake isn't something I'd wish on anyone. 'Cept maybe the sons-of-bitches who put them there, but I'm pretty sure they're all dead and gone.

"She's fine, kid," I call over the table. "No one here but me. Dropped a bottle and startled you. Sorry 'bout that." I could go over and help him up, but I don't think that's the best idea. Not cause he'll hurt me. I just don't want to wound his pride any more than it's already been damaged. Course, it hasn't even hit him yet. But it will in about thirty seconds.

He gets to his feet unsteadily, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He's wobbly even when he stands, and, right on schedule, his face fills with so misery I don't want to look at him. I give him some time to recover, and he takes it, breathing deeply and murmuring something to himself that I can't quite hear.

"You need to sleep," I finally say with as much disinterest as I can manage, sitting down the liquor with a sad thud. Now's not the time.

I'd imagine he feels damn near castrated, knowing that I'm right, that he has to leave his exhausted wife to take care of their daughter alone so he can take a  _nap_. But if he doesn't rest he's gonna have more of these now that he's started. Resilient as his brain may or may not be, it's worthless once he's exhausted like this. Or I can only assume. He hasn't been this worn down for a long time, at least that I can remember.

"I can't sleep when she's crying," his whisper is harsh, humiliation so thick I think it might be contagious. "I can't sleep when either of them are crying." He doesn't think he can be a good father, because no matter what he does, there's always  _this_ to deal with. The single one of us who maybe didn't have demons at all had to have one forced inside of him.

I hold up the jar of precious whiskey, "So do what I told you, boy. She'll sleep. Or just take some of your sedatives. They'd put you under even if you were getting your toenails extracted."

He opens his mouth, like he's about to ask something, and I know he's probably forgotten what I said before his episode, but I don't want to let on that I know it's happened. Even though he knows I know. So I make to explain, "It numbs the gums. She won't be able to feel the pain, so she'll sleep. Doesn't take much."

That last part could have gone without saying, because he smiles a little when he takes the jar from me. I've given him way more than the baby needs. Overcompensated. "She wants to see you," he mutters hoarsely.

"She doesn't even know who I am," I grab my bottle again. If we're gonna talk about this, screw appropriate. I need a drink.

This makes him smile even more, "Oh, you and I both know she does. She tries to crawl out the back door whenever I open it. And we think that she–"

"It's the geese," I interrupt him because I know exactly what they  _think_  and  _I_  don't want to think about it. "Not me. Kids don't like me. But geese, they're a grand old time."

He shakes his head, and the action makes him wince, "Geese are awful, Haymitch. Everyone knows that but the two of you. You're like peas in a pod…"

I bite the inside of my cheek and slam the bottle onto the table, "Yeah, I thought I'd invite her over to watch some old Quell footage while we got wasted." My words have a harsh finality that takes him aback. Instead of arguing, he heads for the door.

"If this," he shakes the bottle, "doesn't work, I'm going to come over here for the night. And I'll take the pills if it gets any worse."

This is not something I'd look forward to with any sort of pleasure, but I grunt my assent and he shuts the door behind him. I'm not about to send him to the Hawthornes. Hazelle can handle herself, but even with her brothers the way they are, Posy's somehow managed to end up being the only person who survived the bombing who's even close to normal and no one wants to do anything to change that. Her home doesn't need to be a halfway house for chronic flashback sufferers.

I've picked up the bottle for the third time when there's a knock at the door that Peeta just closed. It can't be the boy. He never knocks. Neither of them do. But then, the only reason I started knocking is because I walked in on them going at it on the staircase once, and that's the sort of sight that a man can't drink away. Hazelle's not scheduled to be here for another two days, and we have an unspoken rule that she never pays social calls. It's hard to look a woman in the eye when she's paid to regularly heave your drunk ass into a tub and clean vomit off of your walls. So I'd be really surprised to see her.

But seeing her daughter behind the door manages to be even more surprising.

She's twenty now, and I'd be lying to say the girl's not a looker. I remember how her parents were before Jasper died and his wife got wrung out like a piece of old laundry. Basically there wasn't a more handsome couple in the district. The fact that I even noticed should be evidence enough, because those years were some of the hardest. With a body that was young enough to handle it and pain that reeked like fresh paint, I made certain I was drunk enough to forget everything almost every waking minute. But even through that haze I noticed the two of them lighting up the Seam whenever I went to the Hob. Unlike Gale and Rory, Posy favors her father more than her mother (don't know where the hell Vick came from), but that doesn't matter because I'm not ashamed to admit that man had a  _very_  pretty face.

But I'm not running a beauty contest here, so I have no clue why she's at my door.

"We need to help Peeta and Katniss," she calmly states, the way you would normally ask your neighbor to please lend you a cup of sugar. Well, some other neighbor. Definitely not me. I guess I could lend her a cup of brandy or rum, if she were trying to make some kind of cake. But watching her crossing her arms across her chest with finality, high ponytail bouncing, I decide not to offer. We do live next to one of the most talented bakers in the nation. He's bound to have whatever anyone needs.

"They need a babysitter, kiddo," I shrug. "So go babysit. Don't know how I fit in there."

Pretty surprisingly, she doesn't roll her eyes. "I already did, and so did Ma. Katniss says the baby's too upset, that she won't leave her with anyone in this state. But I saw Peeta, and he's poorly. She's not much better. They need help." As she says the word "help," she tilts her head forward, and the implication is clear.

"You think I should watch the baby?" I chuckle. "I don't know a thing about babies. How the hell do you expect me to convince them to let her stay with me overnight?"

She scowls, and it's pretty obvious how much of her formative years she's spent with Katniss, "Don't play dumb with me, Haymitch. Until recently, I saw you over there every day. Hope loves you. I bet she's crying because you're not around."

"She's gettin' more teeth, that's all."

Her scowl becomes more of a gloat, "Oh, and how exactly would you know that? It seems like 'a thing about babies.'"

"She doesn't need an old drunk around," I mutter, not quite pleased about being taken to task by this girl.

Without asking, she brushes past me, inviting herself in. "That's why you stopped hanging around? Because she might pick up on your alcoholism?" Her ponytail whirls as she turns, smacking me in the face. "You know what? Don't answer that. I don't want to know. Now, we're all ready to cook them a nice little dinner and then send them to bed, but that means you have to take the baby for the night. You're the only person they trust enough to do it."

I gesture at the pile of glass and booze on the floor. "This look like a healthy atmosphere for a crawling baby?"

"I'd have expected you to observe the fact that my grandmother baby-proofed your house six months ago," a voice from the doorway pipes in unexpectedly. "Aren't you supposed to be the sort of person who picks up on things like that? I thought you were supposed to be clever."

I turn my head and the stretched-out, eleven-year-old boy version of Johanna Mason is standing there, looking at me appraisingly with his creepy, feline wide-set eyes.

"Guess you thought wrong, runt. Does it rankle?"

"Shut up, Haymitch," Posy cuts in. Then adds, as if an afterthought, "And be nice, Alder. This is what the counselors keep telling you about."

"They're idiots," he huffs. "Their methodology is fragmented and their approach inane. As though taking me away from the one thing in life I find even remotely stimulating will make me more personable." He tucks his chin into his neck, nearly smoldering.

"Kicked out of school again?" I snort. Instead of answering, the kid just looks up at me through his mass of brown curls and glowers.

Posy puts her finger under his chin and yanks his face up. "Answer him, Alder," she orders. "He asked you a fair question."

"He's mocking me," the kid mutters. He may be as smart as his uncle, maybe smarter, though unlike Vick who's cluelessly obnoxious but always helpful, this kid has a wide streak of disinterested detachment that comes across as nasty nine times out of ten. The rest of the time, he's just plain mean, like his mother on a really bad day. The only three people in the world he seems to actively like are Johanna herself, Beetee, and Nick Odair, and he's not what you would call "nice" to any of them. The latter is especially strange considering that, with a charm that must be genetic, Annie's boy is just about the friendliest kid in the world. Katniss and Peeta, and the remainder of Alder's family get begrudging loyalty and acceptance of a sort from him. The rest of us are just bystanders in his mind. And he's  _eleven_.

I don't know what made him this way. Maybe he was born like this. The Hawthorne men are all a little off, with some kind of weird mix of brains and passion that just seems like a ready-made recipe for equal parts heroism and tragedy. But for Gale, being in the national spotlight the way that he has been for so many years meant that had to unwillingly drag his family through it with him. I've seen what the limelight does to people. It's never pretty, even when imminent death isn't involved. Growing up like that, the child of one of the only remaining Victors  _and_  the young, handsome, and beloved Minister of Defense, must have been hard on the boy. It will be easier on the twins. Gale's not nearly so much of a celebrity now that he's been in the government so long, and Johanna's fame has mostly been eclipsed by some kind of new nonlethal fighting show with all-female, all-volunteer participants. The war has been over for long enough that people seem less concerned with "heroes," if such a thing even exists.

But there's no question in my mind. Even if he got called in his first Reaping, Alder Hawthorne could win the Games. Youngest victor ever. He's smart enough and I know his parents have taught him to survive. More than smart enough. He's got the same thing Johanna does - the ability to read people and be whatever it is that he needs to be in order to get what he wants out of them. It's how she won. We're all pretty lucky that, like his mom, he's more interested in being a smartass in everyday life.

And for just about the one thousandth time, I have to remind myself that there are no more Games, and this kid's gonna to have to figure out how to deal with his larger-than-life personality in mundane reality, just like the rest of the world does.

His aunt tuts in fake sympathy in response to his complaint, "Well, you just mocked  _him_ , so I'd say that's fair."

It doesn't matter, he won't do anything other than glare at me, so she explains for him, "Alder told one of his teachers that she was stupid."

"Please don't put words in my mouth, Aunt Posy," the boy interjects, "I told her she was doing an utterly ineffective job at conveying her learning objectives based on the most basic tenants of educational psychology." Even knowing how smart he is, it's kind of bizarre that he cares about such a dull-sounding topic.

"And…?" Posy crosses her arms.

The faintest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of the kid's mouth, "Then I told her she was dumber than a flat wedge. So now I've been exiled to District Twelve early, and for the entire summer, just when Beetee was getting into something really interesting in the lab. I have to help Uncle Rory, instead. Dad says it will make a man out of me, but all it's made me so far is excruciatingly  _bored_. Nick isn't even certain he's coming at all this year, so I am utterly without consolation."

"Ever consider alcohol?" I hold up my bottle, still as of yet untasted. "Takes the edge off."

The sharp sting of Posy smacking my hand is absolutely worth it for the look on her face. "It wasn't just the name-calling. He's been causing all sorts of trouble."

Of course he is. Clever kid who's bored? What does anyone expect? I nearly burned down the Hob once, in my day. Back when I had a day, that is.

"Figuring out their pathetically formulaic standardized tests and distributing the answer key is not 'causing trouble.' No one learns under those circumstances. I was doing the administration a favor by bringing such a thing to their attention. Anyway, it was an attempt at ingratiating myself to the other students. Everyone says I need more friends, and since I am disinclined to make them through conventional means, it seemed a worthy experiment."

"And did it work?" Posy asks leadingly.

He grimaces a little and I guess he doesn't like his research methods being called into question. "Not… particularly, no. Apparently it is impossible to gain someone's friendship in such a manner. But I hardly need such sentimental attachments anyway. Look at where that sort of behavior got Dad and Uncle Rory."

This kid pulls fewer punches than his mother.

Posy swallows hard, and it's clear that this blow has caught her off guard. "Alder, your dad is one of the most powerful men in the country. And your uncle is doing what he loves… it's completely his choice. Neither of them is in a  _bad_  place," she tries lamely.

"Dad doesn't have any friends but Mom, and he works himself to exhaustion most days. The only person he ever wants to talk to is Beetee. He's too busy redeeming himself for something that wasn't even actually his fault to be a good father or husband. If he could just look at the situation rationally–"

His tirade is interrupted when Posy slaps him hard. I have to choke back my laughter at the shocked look on his face.

"Your dad is the only father I've ever known, and he was a damn good one. You're just an insufferable, arrogant little brat." I don't think I've ever seen the girl actually angry like this. Annoyed maybe, even irritated. But this is blazing rage. Instead of wanting to help him like she did earlier, she looks like she wants to rip him apart. Right now, she isn't his aunt. She's more like his big sister. Guess it makes sense with the age difference.

"Knock it off, the two of you," I wave the bottle in between them to get them away from each other. "Or at least don't do this in my house. The only one who messes this place up is me."

But the boy will not be silenced. There's a strange sort of vulnerability in his voice; a genius but still one with a child's simple mind, desperate for something from a father, who despite loving him pretty desperately, hasn't ever completely stopped dancing around the edge of despair. It makes what he says next, despite being pretty damn false, make a lot of sense.

"The only reason my dad blames himself is because Primrose Everdeen was killed!"

The moment that follows is thick with fifteen years of guilt, but not just Gale's. How is this kid supposed to understand that Prim's not the only reason? Maybe the acid icing on the bitter cake, but not the only one. He doesn't understand what it feels like to make kids die, or to feel responsible for the destruction of just one, let alone more. I hope he never does.

"Explain to her, Abernathy. Explain to her why it is in no one's best interest to develop too many emotional entanglements." He rubs the red spot on his cheek and glares.

I'm taken aback. "Why should I do that, kid?"

"Maybe because it's so very obvious it's what you're doing yourself?"

My eyes narrow, "Watch it, runt." This has gone from painful to unbearable pretty quickly.

"You can't pretend with me. Anyone with any sort of observational skills would have noticed. The last time I was visiting, you couldn't get enough of the Mellark baby. Now you sit over here, alone, smashed bottle on the floor while your surrogate children are nearly mad with loss of sleep. It's not a coincidence that this has happened just around the time when a human infant develops skills like speech and..."

Before I realize I'm doing it, the bottle has left my hand, and flown across the room. When it hits the far wall, it doesn't shatter, just clunks with a resounding thud, then spins around on the floor, spilling liquor everywhere.

"Get the hell out. Both of you."

I don't have to tell them twice.

When they're gone, I pick up the phone, my hand shaking over the keypad. I'm not sure if it's the ever-pleasant deetees, or just the fact that I'm so worked up. As I dial the numbers, I take a long drink from a bottle of wine. Either way, that should calm it.

"I lied," I say before she can even get in a greeting.

She tsks, and her voice sounds like she's in the middle of something, maybe walking down a hall based on the clipping echo I hear, "Haymitch, I didn't actually expect that you would move to the Capitol if I sent you that whiskey."

"Not about that, princess" I grit my teeth and the clipping stops, "about the baby. I haven't seen her in a while. Don't know what she's up to. Been making up stories for the past two weeks."

For once, she doesn't really have anything, asinine or otherwise, to say. "W-why?" is all she can get out. She sounds completely confused. I don't know how to answer, so I don't say anything for a while.

She tries again, a little exasperated, "Haymitch, I can't help you if I don't know what happened."

"Nothing  _happened_ ," I growl

"You're sober," she states, as though it's some kind of convincing argument.

"So what?"

"Oh just stop it. You haven't been drinking as much, I can tell. When's the last time you ran out of liquor? Have you even noticed that I've been sending you less?" I guess I hadn't, but she was right. In the past year, without even meaning to, I've cut my consumption in half, maybe. Until very recently, I didn't even usually drink until the day was over, since Katniss won't let me touch the baby if I even have a hint of liquor on my breath.

"I've been sober before."

She sighs, "When it was life-or-death, or just not available, of course you were. Not like this. Not habitually over a long period of time."

"So?"

"Haymitch, you wouldn't get sober for me."

The unexpected thing I've learned about Effie is that she doesn't do guilt anymore. She can't and I never could; we just say whatever we have to and live with the consequences. So I know this isn't the prelude to some kind of fight she's trying to start, but I can't help but respond bitterly.

"Yeah, well, I didn't hear you volunteering to leave the Capitol for me either, princess." As soon as the words are out of my mouth I bite my tongue because it's just so petty and stupid and both of us are too broken to even do this.

"No, you didn't," she sighs, not taking the bait, "but that's not what I'm getting at."

I know damn well what she's getting at. It's not that strange, I guess, that she and I would end up understanding each other so well. But it's not for the reasons everyone expected. We both have a lot of things we need to forget. And we've both come up with pretty awful ways to do it.

"I can't be numb and see the baby at the same time."

"And the more you see her, the more you want to be numb," good old Effie.

"That's the long and the short of it."

She sighs, "Whenever I leave Twelve, I spend at least the next three days on vikes before I get the strength to flush the rest of them."

I don't ask why. There are too many reasons.

"There isn't anything that makes me able to stop," she continues. "There are things I want, of course. Things I need, as well. But none of them makes it possible. If I found even one that I felt like I could keep, I don't think I'd ever let it go."

"She can't stay a baby. Someday she's gonna grow up." I  _know_  they're over. I know it. But that doesn't change the fact that I'd rather her never existed than know that someday, this baby is gonna turn twelve.

"Let me protect her from here," she reassures me. I know she's trying. Head of the Department of Child Welfare and all. Like "departments" ever really help with anything.

"And if you can't?"

She sighs, "No one's ever really safe, sweetie. But I think she's safer than anyone else will ever be."

"Sentimental bullshit," I mutter.

She switches to her peppy Reaping Day voice and I can tell she's smiling, "Perhaps that's what all of us need, hm?

"I got somewhere to be," I mutter. "And don't call me 'sweetie.'"

"Tell them I said hello!" she says brightly as I hang up.

I collapse into the couch and stare at the bottle of wine. There's just enough to knock me out for the night. It'd be easier.

Never was great at easier, though.

Hazelle answers the door when I knock, but she doesn't look surprised. "Alder doesn't understand," is all she says. Her voice is apologetic, but not much.

"Ain't his fault," I shrug. "Glad he doesn't have a reason to. Too bad for your boy, though."

"They'll work it out, eventually. Johanna'll make 'em." And that's that. She's not really much of a talker. It's nice. Wish there were more people like her around.

Posy peeks out through the living room. She looks kinda scared, like I'm here to throw more bottles.

"Shouldn't you be cooking?" I ask. And just like that, she's out of the room.

Girl's twenty. She should have learned how to stop scampering by now.

* * *

I'm sober. Completely sober. That swig of wine is all I've had all day. Is all I can even think about having. So I raise my hand unsteadily, and knock at the door.

Peeta opens it, his arms full of fussing baby. Her dark curls are wild, and her eyes are so full of tears that they look like little crystal pools. But then she sees me, and they light up.

"AYMISH!" she chirps, reaching her arms towards me.

"Hey firefly."

From the kitchen, I can hear Katniss call out over the noise of Posy and Alder arguing as they clean up, "Did she just do it?"

The grin on the kid's face is so huge I want to knock him out, "Yeah, she did it. No doubt about it." He leans forward and then chubby little hands are grasping for me, stretching out. I take her in my arms. She's bouncing happily, saying my name over and over, and grabbing at my ears. And it's just as terrifying as it was the day two weeks ago when she said it for the first time. The girl comes in from the kitchen, and takes the boy's hand.

"Go to sleep," I mutter. "I'll keep her for the night. Take her over myself. I know where everything is."

As if she was ordered to do it, Hope starts to fuss and play with my collar at the same time. Katniss makes a face like she's gonna argue, but then stops herself, and wraps her arms around her husband. He kisses the top of her head. They both look at me gratefully, but don't say a thing. They know better.

"You were right," the boy chuckles as they lean into each other, completely exhausted, "Her first word was definitely 'Haymitch'."

* * *

The next morning, I wake up to a flash of light, but there's no knife anywhere to grab. I'm sleeping in my bed, which is such a rarity that the thing might as well be called Effie's bed, because the only time I'm ever here, she's here too. But I know she's not here, because it doesn't smell like her. It's then that I discover that I'm curled around a small nest of pillows.

Looking inside it, I see Hope, who managed to sleep through the night just fine. All it took was a little whiskey on the gums, and the dozen picture books that I've managed to keep hidden from everyone for months. She's giggling sleepily at something across the room. I turn to where she's looking, and there they are, the girl lowering a camera, and the boy pulling a ridiculous face at his daughter to make her laugh.

"So, should we send this to Plutarch?" he asks. "He  _has_  been begging for photos."

I look at the baby.

"Whatdya say we eviscerate them and run off into the woods, firefly?"

She giggles even louder.


	4. Two

"Aymiss, why gayse?" with chubby arms held out at right angles to her body, Hope waddles in a pretty good imitation. I think she's asking why they walk the way they do, but I'm not totally certain. Maybe she's asking the deeper philosophical question: Why did the old drunk choose to keep geese out of all possible animal options? I give her the only answer that makes any damn sense in either instance.

"Cause they're  _geese_ , firefly." Really, either way, that's all I know. But I promised myself when she started asking questions that I'd never be the one who lies to her.

I've deceived her family enough for a lifetime.

Usually one question begins a string of "whys," but I avoid that by slinging the bag of feed over my shoulder and heading towards the shed. Behind me, the girl trots on her dimpled, little legs, her brown trousers covered in mud. A string of about five of the older goslings follow after her. I don't think there's anyone even around right now to see me grinning, but I keep it to myself anyway. This brood was laid late in early summer. When the mother died, I incubated the eggs myself. The little one and I watched together as they hatched. Of course, I should have realized that the damn things would imprint on her, the first thing they saw, but I didn't till it had happened. So now they won't leave her alone. Not that she minds, but it makes them kind of unbearable whenever she goes away. Since she's a toddler who doesn't  _live_ in my house, that's pretty often.

"Aymiss, why daddy do  _kik kik kik kik_?" I turn around to see what the hell she's talking about, and I realize that with each little "kik" sound, she makes an exaggerated shuffle with one of her legs. It's the sound the kid's fake leg makes. It's not even loud enough for most people to pick up on, but of course she has. It's already pretty obvious that she's not a genius, like Alder, or a wild animal in child form, like the twins, but she is an observant, empathic little thing who picks up on subtle details that a lot of other people just ignore.

But this is one detail I wish she'd have missed, and honestly, something I wasn't expecting for at least another few months at least. Maybe I should have spent more time explaining to her why geese waddle. Because if I'm not going to lie, I'm not certain how I can get out of this one without revealing something I don't have the right to talk about, or just generally traumatizing her.

"It's his leg. It makes a funny sound," I heave the bag of grain into the shed and lock the door.

I turn around, and she's gazing up at me, thoughtful look on her face. The geese stand around her, heads tilted in the same direction. It's pretty uncanny.

"Why?"

Here we go…

"Because it's made of metal," I begin, hoping that just this once, this will be enough.

"Why?"

I take more time with my answer, and try to sound final. Occasionally, that tone manages to convince her to knock it off. "Because he needed a new one."

"Why?"

"Because he got hurt," I sigh with exasperation.

She doesn't give a whit about my irritation, and her blue eyes are still wide with curiosity.

"Why?"

_Well Abernathy, you got yourself into this one. You didn't have to start answering. Now you're stuck._

I crouch down on the ground, and the geese scatter. Damn things are terrified of me, even though _I'm_  the one who feeds them. If they think Hope is their mother, then I guess I'm the one who's always picking her up and taking her away.

Haymitch Abernathy, destroying families for twenty-three years, is back again.

"Why 'urt?" she asks again, this time putting her hands on her hips and scowling, looking so much like her mother it's eerie. I don't know how to answer this. I don't think it's even my place to. I'm not used to keeping my mouth shut when it comes to the obvious.

"He just did, little one." a soft voice behind me says with authority. "Could you bring me the prettiest red leaf you can find, please?"

"Otay," Hope chirps enthusiastically, and then waddles off to complete her task, whole family of geese following behind her.

I stand slowly, realizing that crouching is getting a little more difficult than it was a few years before.

"Thanks, crazy," I tell Annie. I didn't even realize she was here, not down in the town square with everyone else.

She smiles and shakes her head. The silver streaks in her tangled hair ripple in the autumn wind, and make her look like some kind of ancient sea-dweller or something. It's not so much that she's aged, really, because her face is still pretty young, but she's going gray faster than anyone else, even me. "I'm used to these sorts of questions," she says distantly. "When they're this little, you don't have to tell them anything, really. They're not asking because they really want to know. They ask because it's fun to ask, and why gets a reaction out of you. Redirection seems to work most of the time." She chuckles a little, like this is some sort of secret joke. "At least she isn't saying 'no.'"

"Managed pretty well, doing this all by yourself. He's a good kid." As if on cue, her son, Alder, and Posy rise over the crest of the hill, coming back from the Harvest Festival. The Hawthorne boy is only twelve, compared to Nick's fourteen, but he's already taller than Annie's handsome son, all stringy knees and elbows. Nick is telling some sort of joke, and Posy is laughing. Alder even has half of a smirk on his face. Seeing the two boys makes my stomach clench, because they're  _old enough_. Finnick especially looks so much like his dad that I can't help but see him in the arena himself. He'd never make it, though. He may look like his father, but he didn't inherit his grace or ruthless abandon.

Annie shakes her head interrupting my thoughts, "But Haymitch, I was never alone. I had so much help. So much love from so many people."

"Crazy, you might think that, but give yourself some credit. We're all alone when it really comes down to it. Every one of us." I'm thinking of the arena. Of her son in the arena. I shut my mouth. There's something about this weird girl that gets me actually saying the things that are in my head, and I don't like it one bit.

Where the road turns to grass, Nick trips and falls flat on his face. I start to laugh, because despite everything it's still pretty damn funny, seeing someone who looks so much like Finnick Odair acting so awkward. But when I turn to see that Annie's eyes are clenched shut, hands over her ears, shaking her head back and forth, my laughter stops. I look over to the kids, but Alder had noticed even before I did, and he's already in the process of yanking his friend up and pushing him forward. Nick stumbles and then runs until he's reached his mother's side.

"Shhh, mother… shhhhh," he soothes her. I feel as uncomfortable as I think it's humanly possible to feel, which is strange, considering the amount of emotional fallout I've experienced over the years. But really, I only deal with the boy's episodes and the girl's breakdowns. Don't want, or even know how to manage anyone else's, even if they're mild and don't involve property damage. I do it for the two of them because I always have, but it's not like it's a task I enjoy.

I guess when it comes down to it, the two of them are family.

Posy and Alder close about half of the distance between where Nick fell and where I'm now standing. The boy glares at me accusingly, like I somehow managed to cause all this. Posy makes a discreet little beckoning gesture, and I take her hint and give the Odairs some privacy.

"She doesn't like it when he gets hurt," Posy says in explanation when I reach her. She's been around Annie more than I have, and I suppose that makes sense, so I let it go.

I try to act like nothing is really happening, in an effort to diffuse the situation, but Alder continues to glare at me, and then glances over at his friend with what might actually be concern. Nearby, the baby roots around in a pile of leaves. She's taking her assignment to find the prettiest red leaf pretty damn seriously. The goslings root around with her, and even though they're digging for food, they might as well be a search party.

"Aymiss, I dound it!" she cries, running and holding up what looks to me to be a fairly average leaf. It is red, though. She's got that part right. The geese follow her, and gaze up at me expectantly because I am, if nothing else, the bringer of meals and maybe, once again, it's time.

"Lemme see, firefly," I hold out my hand, expecting her to give it to me.

Her blue eyes flicker with a healthy amount of defiance, and she pulls the leaf close to her chest. "No! Dor  _Nannie_."

"Okay then," I chuckle. But before I realize it, she's running over to the woman and her son, squealing, "Nannie!" at the top of her lungs. I reach to catch her, but she slips out of my grasp like a little weasel, and I end up on the ground with a face full of grass. Alder and Posy make no effort to either stop her or help me up.

"Ingrates," I mutter, watching as the geese follow the little girl across the lawn.

Alder looks at me with disdain, "If you knew anything about Mrs. Odair at all, you'd know that this is the perfect misdirection from her distress. Honestly, Abernathy. It's like you spend your days with your head in a bag of goose feed."

Posy giggles at her nephew's comment. It's a musical sound that manages to annoy me to an extreme degree. As I push myself to my feet, I see that, much to my eternal discomfort, the kid is right. Hope holds out the leaf to the distraught woman, bursting with pride. Nick says, "Look, mother. Look what Hope's brought. Isn't it wonderful?"

And then Annie lowers her hands and smiles with fragility, her eyes coming into focus from the distant, distracted place they were before. "Oh little one… it's the most beautiful leaf in the world."

"Dor you," the baby smiles, holding it up and wiggling around on her tiptoes. Her small retinue of birds holds rank, but honks disapprovingly at Annie and the boy who are both strangers.

Nick smiles his father's megawatt smile, "Thanks, Hope. The leaves don't change like this at home. We'll make sure to take this back with us."

"Sea?" the baby asks eagerly. A few days ago, while Katniss was hunting and Peeta was taking care of something at the bakery, I explained to her that Nick wasn't always here because he lived by the sea. It took about ten different "why" sessions and three separate picture books, but she seems to have finally gotten it.

Nick looks a little shocked, "Where'd you learn about the sea?"

"Aymiss!" Hope dances around. "Stories!" The geese grumble unhappily, trying to follow her as she zigs and zags across the yard.

"Stories, eh Haymitch?" Nick calls to me. "Wanna tell me some? I love a good bedtime story about the sea."

I'm just about to tell him just exactly what kind of bedtime stories he can expect to get from me, when the girl squeals and runs happily across the yard.

"Daddy! Momma!"

The two of them are trudging slowly up the hill, and in their arms are even more Hawthornes, the twins this time. The little girl, Juniper, is calmly perched on Katniss' shoulders, grasping her head and standing in a way that seems an almost impossibility. The wind ruffles her short auburn hair, and she's quiet. The two of them seem perfectly content with the situation. I suppose Juniper has never been a real problem, if you discount her ability to sneak away from her minders at a moment's notice, and her proclivity for putting herself in extremely dangerous situations. It's not like she's  _trying_ to upset you. Her and Katniss seem to understand one another pretty well.

The boy, on the other hand, is holding the squirming  _other one_  under his arm with what just might be every last bit of strength he has. It's particularly hilarious, because Jasper Hawthorne looks almost exactly like his father, except for his green eyes, and he seems to hate Peeta with every last ounce of his being. This fight is about twenty years overdue.

"Mister Peeta, you're  _stupid_ ," the toddler shouts, as the kid turns him upside-down in an attempt to get control. The boy loves kids. All of them. So it's damned hilarious to see the beleaguered, almost angry expression on his face. He's clearly never had to deal with anything even remotely resembling this. Jasper's a fighter already. I wouldn't be surprised if in eight years he could…

Nope. That's not real anymore. There's no more Games.

Hope, though, doesn't find the boy harassing her father funny at all. Her excited trot toward her parents turns into an angry march. Her change in demeanor is so obvious that the army of geese scatters in anticipation of the conflict, honking unhappily as they go. When she arrives in front of her father and the little hellion in his arms, she reaches her chubby hand into the hair on the four-year-old's head, grabs, and yanks.

Hard.

"Ow ow ow ow owwwww!" the boy cries. "Lemme go!" His struggling gets wilder and wilder, until one of his feet kicks out and hits the kid right in the nose. They both fall over backwards into a pile on the ground. Hope finally lets go, and sits down heavily. The jolt upsets her, and she starts to cry.

I'm picking her up off the ground, saying "Shhhh, little firefly," before I even realize that pretty much everyone and their damn mother is staring at me. The girl is trying to put down Juniper as quickly but gently as she can, and the kid is working to both untangle himself from the roaring inferno that is Jasper while at the same time keeping the little boy from running away. Posy's mouth is hanging open, and Nick is chuckling. Alder shakes his head disapprovingly, but I'm not certain if it's directed at me or at his little brother. Annie just smiles and spins her leaf.

Hope wails into my shoulder, making little sobbing noises that damn near break my heart. I feel so fucking humiliated and protective it's almost impossible to stand. I want to take her with me into the house and sit her down and make her a sandwich and read her a story.

Where the  _hell_ is this all coming from? What I really want is a nice long drink in a dark quiet room.

Katniss saves me, approaching her daughter with a bit of concern, but mostly amusement. "You alright, little goose?" she murmurs.

"Maammaaaa…" Hope wails miserably, reaching out her arms.

"C'mere then," she pulls the girl from me and rocks her back and forth, trying not to chuckle. "Now listen. You can't pull hair. This is what happens when you do. People get hurt."

"Daddy 'urt?" Hope hiccups. Any concern for the Hawthorne boy is pretty noticeably absent. But her dad finally gets up, and stands Jasper in front of him, holding his shoulders down with his hands. The four-year-old continues to wiggle and squirm.

"No boys," Peeta spits out to his wife, face red with annoyance. "Just… no boys."

Katniss smirks to her daughter, who continues to sniffle, "Daddy's fine, baby. He's just… embarrassed."

"No boys," the kid shakes his head again.

Alder interrupts their moment, if you could call it that.

"I believe in the copulation process, gender is the purview of the male." He crosses his arms and shrugs with a little smirk. "So you might want to try training your sperm. It's never been done before, but I understand you're rather persistent."

Peeta blanches. No one wants to hear this from a kid who can't even grow facial hair. Otherwise it's actually pretty damn hilarious.

"Alder," Nick says calmly, but authoritatively as he approaches us.

"Not good?" the runt asks, as though he actually wants to know. I guess he's not so much of a runt anymore. At this point, the name's stuck, though.

"Not so good," Nick shakes his head.

"Seriously," Posy adds with disgust. "I already have to think about the two of them so much more than I ever wanted to. Don't make it worse."

"What are you talking about?" Katniss asks with something like horror, covering her daughter's ears.

We all look at them with surprise.

"You mean you don't know?" Posy asks.

Unlike his friend, who seems nonplussed at the mention of adults having sex, Nick pulls a face like a normal fourteen-year-old. "I really don't want to talk or think about this. Come on mother, let's go to the festival," he calls back to Annie, who is standing some distance away, holding her leaf in the sun.

As the Odairs leave, I turn to the kids who look both curious and horrified. Hope struggles to get her mother's hands off of her ears.

"You can't really stay in this neighborhood for a week without overhearing the two of you…" Their jaws drop open, "…at least twice."

The girl whirls around to face the kid, "This is  _your_ fault. Always insisting we sleep with the windows open."

He looks so beleaguered that I find myself helping him out. "Yeah, well, sweetheart…  _he's_  not the one who wakes us up."

I think she's trying to burn a hole in my soul with her eyes, but it's not gonna work. I just laugh. The kid looks like he's going to burst a blood vessel from humiliation, or maybe just fear of his wife's reaction. His grip on Jasper's shoulders must tighten, because the boy cries out.

"Ouch! Mister Peeta, I  _hate_ you," he proceeds to kick him vigorously in the shin.

"Jasper…" Alder holds out his hand commandingly. "Stop this now."

It's pretty amazing. The kid goes from a roaring volcano into a calm, meek little boy in an instant. Peeta lets go of his shoulders, rubbing his shin. Jasper had a fifty-fifty chance of getting his actual leg, but he managed to.

Alder continues to speak, turning to Katniss and Peeta. "I wouldn't be that concerned. I mean, my parents did just trick you into watching these two so they could engage in relations in the woods, did they not? Hardly something to be embarrassed over."

We all stare at him.

"Oh come on!" He seems shocked that no one shares his insight. "It's so obvious! Please, tell me what it's like to be so intolerably  _ignorant._ "

No one responds, until Posy finally says, "Alder, you're my nephew, and I love you, but you are the world's creepiest person."

"Sex is not  _creepy_. Uninteresting, perhaps. Maybe a general waste of time, but a normal biological function nevertheless."

"They're your parents, and you're  _twelve_. And we don't want to think about it."

"Clearly, I'm more mature than any of you," the boy retorts. "And I've not even had sex."

"Alder,  _please_ ," Posy begs. "Your brother is  _right there_."

The boy is about to go into some sort of tirade, I can just feel it, but his aunt manages to save all of us that rather unpleasant experience.

"Oh look," she says with a weary sigh. "Juniper's climbed on top of the porch again." And she has. There's a trellis on the side of the kids' house, full of morning glories. It's not exactly small, but the little monkey managed to make it all the way up in the short time that everyone was distracted by her brothers. Now that she's to the top, she just sits quietly, gazing serenely towards the woods like she belongs there.

"Cwaihm!" Hope squeals with excitement.

"Don't even think about it, firefly," I mutter.

* * *

I spend the rest of the day in my house, while the kids take Hope to the festival. All of the other visitors thankfully scatter themselves as well. There's little point in going to the damn thing, other than to socialize. Any food there will end up on my table anyway, since the entire district seems to think it's their responsibility to make certain I don't starve. Maybe if they took half a second to look at me they'd notice that it'd take quite a bit of time for that to happen at this point.

Part of me misses being a pariah. When all I was doing was drinking myself to death and leading their kids to the slaughter every year, no one wanted to even look at me. Now I'm a national hero, and they treat me like one, with deference and respect that I never earned from any of them. No matter what I am, I'll always be a boy from the Seam. And we don't take charity, even if it comes in the form of undeserved respect.

So I avoid them when I can. People that I know, people who were there fighting, Thom and the like, they don't bother me too much. They get it, I guess. But the ones who spent the entire rebellion holed up in Thirteen only ever saw me running around with Boggs and Plutarch and their precious Mockingjay. They seem to think I saved them all. Makes me furious. I spent most of my time in Thirteen yelling at the girl, or in some sort of lockdown with the shakes as my only companion.

I pull a bottle of the beer Thom brewed last year from the icebox and settle down on the porch swing, keeping an eye on the geese. I don't even realize I've fallen asleep until I feel soft lips on mine, waking me up.

I don't let on, but it's damn nice.

The way she presents herself to the world, you'd think Effie Trinket would taste like spun sugar or violet candies, and that she'd smell the same. But I know different. There's always a hint of bitter in her kiss. She tastes of coffee, dark chocolate, or strong tea, and she smells like nothing but soap. She's pretty much the only person who can wake me up without getting a knife pulled on her. I make out the smell before I even wake up. It didn't start out like this, not in this sort of intimate way. But as she was the only person who woke me up on a regular basis for years, she's really the only one I ever began to recognize as safe.

"I missed you," she smiles against my mouth.

I smack my lips, heavy with sleep, "You were gone?"

She whacks me with her finely manicured hand and settles down beside me, leaning her head on my chest. "You weren't at the festival."

"Doubt there was anything worth missing," I yawn, acting like she isn't even there.

"Oh Haymitch, you're such a stick-in-the-mud. It was wonderful. There were ciders, and pies, and beautiful flowers, and just the most lovely gourds..."

"Yeah, that all sounds like stuff I just go to pieces over, princess. Shame I missed all that. Specially those _gourds._ "

"You also missed Gale and Peeta trying to outdo each other again," she adds smugly.

I chuckle, "I guess I could stand to see that. What was it this year?"

"Oh, just the silly little game booths that they have set up. Unfortunately, a lot of them were of the shooting variety."

"Kid didn't do so well then, hm?"

Effie laughs, "No. He tried, but… well, Johanna was the one who got to go home with all the flowers today." They give flowers as prizes, which is about the stupidest thing I've ever heard. But the kid, and good old Handsome have managed to keep the embers of their long-dead rivalry alive over the decades, despite getting along together just fine with both each other and their respective wives. At least it makes for good entertainment.

"The girl doesn't give a damn about flowers. Fact is, she could win them herself, if she felt like it. Plus, Peeta won last year. With Gale's shoulder the way it is, he can't pick up a hundred pounds, let alone three."

She tosses her hair, "Well, Johanna didn't care about them  _this_  year. She gave them away to some children who promptly dropped them in the mud. Some people just don't appreciate the finer things in life," she hints heavily.

"Some people. Not you," I mutter. "Don't go expecting me to win you any flowers, princess."

"I don't, sweetie," she sniffs. "But that doesn't mean I can't  _long_ and  _dream_  for them."

"Don't call me sweetie," I growl.

She doesn't even acknowledge I've said anything. "Would you like some dinner?"

"Are you  _cooking_?" I sit up in shock. This would be an entirely new development.

"Absolutely not," she huffs.

As it turns out, she doesn't need to, which is good, because I'm not sure she ever really learned how. Just like I assumed, leftovers are always left over for old Haymitch. There's a pot of stew on the front porch, and a basket of breads, pastries, and wrapped leftover slices of pies beside it. I'm guessing they're courtesy of Hazelle's delivering efforts, but I'm never quite sure. Effie and I heat up the stew, toast some bread, and wrap ourselves in a blanket on the swing to eat. My table, despite Hazelle's work, is never really fit for anyone to eat off of, plus I'm playing a game of chess with the boy and it's not quite finished, so that takes up most of the space. But that's okay. The swing works out just fine.

"Hope asked about the kid's leg today," I say as we gently rock back and forth when the meal is over. Her head's in my lap, and it's still a little strange, seeing her without a crazy wig. I'm drinking slowly from another bottle of beer, pretending that I'm not running my fingers through her soft brown hair. She has the courtesy not to mention it.

"Mmm?" she responds sleepily instead. "What did you tell her?"

"That he got hurt."

"And she was satisfied?"

"She's only two and a half, and even then Annie had to save my ass. What's going to happen in another six months? Another six years? How can you tell a little girl that her daddy had his leg damn near bit off by the sort of thing that only lives in her nightmares?"

"Perhaps you let her father be the one who does the telling?"

"Eff, what's going to happen when she finds out it's my fault?"

She sits up and looks at me sadly, "If she thinks it's your fault, then what is she going to think about me? You were forced to mentor. I certainly wasn't forced to do my job. In fact, I rather liked it."

I snort, "You did at that.."

"What I'm trying to tell you is that you're unaware of how convincing you can be. If you weren't… well, I would likely be dead with the rest of the escorts. She's not going to blame you. She  _loves_ you, Haymitch," Effie insists.

"Yeah, I know," I sigh. "But someday she's gonna find out that this old man isn't worth loving."

"You don't know that." What I like the most about Effie is that she doesn't try to argue with me about how worth loving I may or may not be. She just lets it go.

"And you don't have a damn bit of evidence to the contrary, either."

She sighs, "Yes. You are right. Neither of us knows. So I hardly feel there's any point in speculation."

There's no questioning her logic, so we settle back down, rocking back and forth. If I were motivated, I'd start a fire to ward off the fall's chill, but it's not so bad, curled up against each other like this. I try to ignore the fact that somehow I feel all of fifteen again. It's actually pretty easy to do, when I consider the only reason this situation even exists is because the two of us are finally old and familiar enough to feel comfortable doing it. There's nothing much to say, so we don't say anything.

It's nearly midnight when we hear them come home, and at first, there's nothing to hear other than the gentle shutting of their front door. But awhile later, I guess once the baby's put to bed, we can hear them moving around in their bedroom. I can assume my advice earlier about shutting the damn window wasn't put to use.

We hear the squeaking of their bed, as one of them, I'm guessing the boy based on how loud it is, settles down on the mattress, and his voice rings out into the night. He's speaking more loudly than normal.

"Did you have a good time today?"

Effie lifts up her head and looks at me questioningly, like maybe we shouldn't be listening in. But the fact is these two idiots don't know how to maintain their own damn privacy. I'm not about to move just because they're being stupid.

"I can promise you, princess. Whatever it is they say, they're only gonna tell me in a day or so anyway. Might as well hear it now," I mutter.

"What if they're not…  _talking_?"

"I've heard that too."

She makes a face, and I'm not certain if she's disgusted by me, or just the situation in general.

"If that happens, we'll go inside and lock all the doors, princess. Just saying it won't be the first time. Or the last, really."

The girl's voice rings across the yard, interrupting us. "Yeah, I did. You really need to knock it off with Gale, though." She sounds different, more echoing, and I guess she must be in the bathroom or something. If I weren't so used to watching people, I'd probably feel like a voyeur, or whatever its aural equivalent is, but twenty-three years of mentoring really just broke down those walls. Especially with these two.

The kid chuckles, "Well, he managed to make me look pretty foolish, so, maybe I've learned my lesson."

"Yeah, right."

"Nothing wrong with a little friendly competition."

I think I can hear her raising her eyebrow all the way across the yard.

"Plus, he needs a little boost sometimes," he says softly, then tries to make it into a joke to hide the cold truth that Gale Hawthorne still to this day has a really difficult time smiling. "Anyone would, living with that… little...  _boy_ ," he finishes pretty lamely, too damn nice to insult a child.

They don't say anything else for a while, and I shift my focus back to my bottle. Effie's fallen asleep again, making little sounds that are half-snores, half-squeaks. In no matter of time at all, the bottle's empty, and I'd really like another, maybe even something stronger, but I can't bring myself to wake her up. She's warm, is the reason I give myself. Very warm, and it's chilly out here.

"Peeta…" Katniss' nervous voice breaks into the silence, and the tone opens the floodgates of adrenaline in my body. She's not as loud now, but I can still catch what she's said.

The edge in her voice is getting to the the kid as much as it is me, because I hear him scrambling around, probably trying to put on his leg as he calls out for her. When she doesn't answer, he asks a little more frantically, "Katniss, what is it?"

I hear her inhale, and then she's talking rapidly. "So, you know how we had that big fight about me wanting to go back to hunting?"

He sighs, both with relief and frustration, "I told you, Katniss, you could have gone, and can go hunting whenever you want. One of the great things about owning the bakery is that I'm the one who makes the schedule. I can hire people to work  _for_ me, if I need to, and I can be the one who stays at home. I thought we had been through this? Are you upset about leaving her? I mean, I know you are, and I hate that you have to make that choice, but I thought you decided that you really needed to be out of the house more?"

"Peeta..." the girl tries to interrupt him.

"Look, I know that we're supposed to make these sorts of decisions together, since they affect Hope, but I don't want you to think that you have to ask my permission to live your life. That's never what I've wanted. I need you to do the things that make you happy. Not to mention it's really useful to the district when you hunt, even now."

"Peeta…" she tries again, this time sounding a bit more annoyed.

"No, Katniss, I need you to listen to me. You may be my wife, and the mother of my child, but you are first and foremost your own person, and I couldn't live with myself if I felt like you were neglecting something you needed because…"

" _Peeta!_ " she hisses, on the verge of shouting.

"Yes?" he asks meekly. There is a long pause, and I can only imagine the kind of crazy looks they're giving each other. I'm pretty certain I know what's coming. I feel a chuckle building deep in my gut.

"I'm pregnant."

Yep.

Wonder how long it'll take them to tell me  _this_  time. I feel... well, it's difficult to be certain, but here, on this swing, with Effie snoring away on my lap like she belongs there, it seems like really good news.

"…what?" the kid asks weakly. There's the thud as something falls to the ground. Maybe his leg? It's hard to say.

"I can't go hunting because I am  _pregnant_ , Peeta," she explains more deliberately.

"You… but… we… I mean…" he sputters.

I hear her laugh nervously. "You're taking this a lot differently than I thought you would."

He takes a deep breath and gasps out, "No! This is… wonderful, Katniss, I just never  _dreamed_ …"

"But we talked about it, though. This is what was  _supposed_ to happen."

"Yeah, but it happened so… quick," he's dazed, still, and I guess I don't blame him. Never being a father myself, I'm not entirely certain what it's like.

"Does Alder need to give you the talk?" she asks dryly.

The chuckle trapped in my gut breaks free at this, until I'm chortling hysterically. Girl's managed to find herself a sense of humor. My laughter makes Effie stir, and I lift her head up until she's sitting on her own. We need to get out of here now, because I'm guessing things are going to get really out of hand, once the kid manages to get a grasp on the situation.

"What is it?" Effie asks sleepily.

"Let's go in the house," I tell her, pulling her up to stand next to me.

"Why?" she rubs her eyes blearily, messing up her perfect mascara. It looks amazing, but I don't tell her that.

"I'm pretty certain we're about to overhear something we don't want to if we don't. And I don't want you waking the whole damn neighborhood when I tell you what you just slept through."

My precautions are pretty pointless. When I tell her, she squeals so loud I think everyone in the entire district hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to chistudios for this amazing [art](http://chistudios.tumblr.com/post/82803625076/the-grandmentor-bit-stuck-on-my-larger-projects)!


	5. Three

"Where do babies come from, 'Aymitss?"

Of course it would be this. Of all of the fucking things in the world, it would be this.

She's staring curiously at her sleeping little brother, who's strapped to his father's chest as the kid makes dinner. The girl is in the woods with Rory, working to bring in food for said dinner. Such an industrious little couple.

I, on the other hand, am lazily lounging at the table, sipping my first and maybe only beer of the day. It all depends on how the night goes. I've been watching their daughter draw some kind of crazy series of pictures for the past hour. Never seen a kid with this kind of focus before. Her chubby fingers are wrapped tightly around the thick crayons Effie sent her on the train last week, and she pushes them across the page with serious dedication. They're halfway used up already.

When I don't answer her, she turns her gaze from Fletcher to me, and gives me a more pointed look. Three-and-a-half-year-olds should not have this ability to glare, but I guess with her mother being who she is, I shouldn't be too surprised. Thought I was immune to it by now, but I guess it's only when her mother does it.

"Boy, firefly has a question for you!" I call out, trying to ignore the tugs of responsibility. No way I'm handling this. I justify my reaction to myself, cause it's not really  _my_ job to tell anyone's kid about the facts of life. But, I don't know. I guess, with them, it kind of is. Least, it would be, if something happened.

I hate that.

I don't want to be needed like this. Not at all. I've done my time with children and life or death situations. There's really no reason I should even be here at all.

The kid stops what he's doing, wipes his hand with a rag that he keeps slung over his shoulder, then walks over to the table. The baby's asleep, like he often is, especially when his dad is holding him.

"What is it, nutmeg?"

It's actually a bit of a surprise that Hope's aware of her real name, considering all these nicknames flying around. I wonder sometimes if the kid wanted to name her after some kind of baked good, but was vetoed by the girl in the end. Probably for the best. The fact that I haven't yet made fun of his name to his face is probably one of my shining accomplishments of the past twenty one years.

The little one finishes a flourish on her drawing, scribble, or whatever it is, before looking at him with the same serious look. I can't help but feel a little pang of sadistic glee, just wondering how he will react.

"Where do babies come from, Daddy?"

To the kid's credit, he doesn't even pull a face, just adjusts Fletcher as he crouches down to her level.

"What do you mean, Hope?" he asks, equally serious.

"Wewl," the girl begins, scrunching up her nose, "Fwetcher was in Momma's bewly. Am I gonna 'ave a baby in  _my_  bewly?"

"Maybe someday when you're older," the kid answers effortlessly, proving that he's just as silver-tongued when it comes to uncomfortable questions from his child as he was with the probing inquiries from our old pal, Flickerman. "But not now. Girls aren't able to have babies until they're grown up." It's a good answer, I think, since to her "grown up" is basically anyone who isn't obviously a child. Shuts her up without shutting her down, and doesn't really tell her what to do. Of course, he can't just leave it at that, though. She is his baby daughter, after all.

"And they should wait until they're  _married_  and really, really old to have them," he adds with confident authority. I nod in agreement in spite of myself. Something inside me curls up with revulsion at the thought that someday she's gonna be big enough for some kid to put his hands on her. It makes me want to knock around every boy under the age of eleven in the district in warning.

Then I wonder how I can even think about this, since I don't know if she'll even make it past twelve.

 _Of course she will, you damn idiot_ , I tell myself for probably the thousandth time.  _Reapings are over and done with. She's gonna live to be a thousand, at the rate everyone's coddling her._

The girl pauses, and I think for a moment that she's accepted her dad's answer, but then she looks at him with confusion, wrinkling up her nose.

"But Daddy, who  _put_ it in her bewly?"

He grins a little, "I did, nutmeg."

Sitting at the table suddenly becomes incredibly awkward, but the girl doesn't pick up on it at all. I take a long swig of my beer and focus on the baby as he snores against his father's chest, little nostrils flaring with each breath. Unlike his sister, he was born bald, but his hair is growing in all blonde and thick now like his dad's. It's an interesting look, because unlike the girl, who has skin like porcelain, the boy is all Seam, except for the hair. Maybe he's a little lighter than his mom, and definitely lighter than me, but twenty years ago, the merchant class wouldn't have known what the hell to do with a blonde kid this dark.

"How'd you do it?" Hope asks her father guilelessly, interrupting my observation.

He pauses for a minute, and bites his lip thoughtfully. I know she's got him this time. I can't wait to see how he manages to talk his way out of this one. Don't think he can. She is  _Katniss'_  progeny, after all. Probably can see right through all those smooth words.

"Well, mommies have an egg, and daddies have a seed that we put inside the egg," he explains. I've seen him show her how to bake before. He's using the same voice that he employs when he's telling her, " _Now make certain you don't stir too hard, or the flour will… yeah, that's too hard, nutmeg_."

Sex: it's like baking, but for consenting adults.

"No, but  _how,_ Daddy?" she presses, as if he's being unbearably dense.

He looks at me, and for the first time, I see a hint of panic in his eyes. I throw back my beer again. He's on his own with this. I'm sure as hell not explaining sex to a toddler.

"Very carefully, honey," is his response.

"Did Momma  _wike_  it?" she gives him a suspicious look, like maybe he'd given her some sort of shot.

I spew beer all over my only clean shirt and she whips her head to gape at me, pretty startled. Then she wrinkles her nose at the smell of the beer and turns her attention back to her dad.

"I'd like to think so," the kid smirks. I glare at his smug face. She might not understand, but I sure as hell do.

The front door opens, and to both his relief and mine, the girl is no longer interested in where babies come from. "Momma! Momma!" she shouts, running to her mother and jumping up and down.

The girl looks tired, but happy, as she comes in with three squirrels on her belt and a small satchel full of something. Probably late summer berries, or maybe those katniss root things that, interestingly enough, I can't stand the taste of. She swings Hope into her arms and kisses her on the nose.

"Hey, little goose. How was your afternoon with Daddy and Haymitch?"

"I drew a picher of our famiwy, an' I drew a picher of da geese, an' I drew a picher of a deer an' a puppy an' lotsa other nanimals!

"Lotsa other nanimals, hm? I can't wait to see them."

But Hope isn't finished, and she continues, proudly, "An I drew a picher of a fwower, Momma! Den daddy towld me about his seeds in your bewly an' how you wiked it!"

The kid and I both cringe at the same time. I don't know what I'm cringing for, exactly. She sure as hell ain't my wife. But maybe after two decades, I've managed to develop a decent amount of sympathy for the boy. Especially when it comes to things like this. I'm damn glad I'm not him come this evening once the kids are asleep.

"Oh he  _did_ did he?" the girl raises her eyebrow. "Well, your daddy and I will be having a talk later, I think. About the things I like."

"I wike  _you_ , Momma," Hope snuggles into her chest.

"And I  _love_ you, little goose," Katniss smiles, kissing the top of her head.

The baby, maybe noticing that his father has suddenly become rather agitated, starts to fuss, so the girl puts her daughter down. Hope runs back to the table and focuses on her drawings again. Peeta unwraps his son, and hands him over to his wife, grinning sheepishly.

"C'mere, little man," she says to the fussing baby, ignoring her husband altogether. "I bet you're hungry."

"He's been sleeping for the past hour," Peeta offers, trying to soothe her anger. "Didn't cry at all. I think you can probably go out like this regularly if you want, even while he's nursing."

Her earlier ire seems to subside a little bit at the thought. "Are you certain he was okay? I don't want to just leave him. I never left Hope for that long…"

"Katniss, he was  _fine._ We snuggled. I gave him a bath. Hope and I sang songs to him…"

I shake my head, "I'm surprised he's not permanently damaged after that experience."

"Aymitss says Daddy sings wike a bag fuwl of angry cats!" Hope chimes in helpfully.

"I do at that, firefly," I agree.

"I wike cats."

The kid chuckles.

The girl sits down at the table and does something crazy with her shirt, somehow managing to nurse the baby with most of it still on, which I gotta say I appreciate. I get that it's a part of life, and she should be able to feed her kid wherever and whenever she damn well pleases, but I reserve the right to be uncomfortable at whatever the hell I want as well. Course, the girl knows how I feel about seeing her hanging out all over the place, and I think she goes out of her way sometimes to make sure I squirm as much as possible. Hope, on the other hand, stops her coloring and watches the process with interest.

"I'm gonna marry Aymitss when I grow up," she announces after some thought.

In the kitchen, the kid barks with laughter, dropping a pan on the floor.

"Think I'm kinda old for you, firefly," I grumble, not quite certain how I feel about this. It's pretty cute, I guess. Sweet even. But sweet feels like bitter medicine half the time, ripping me up and putting me back together all at once. It's hard to handle in the company of other adults.

She looks perplexed. "Den I'wl marry Nick an' Awlder."

"Both of them?" her mother asks with amusement as she strokes her son's back. The little one is gulping so loud, I can hear him all the way across the table.

Hope nods, "Dey're bes' friends! So I 'ave to marry both."

"I don't think Alder's the marrying kind," I chortle.

Katniss smirks, and her eyes flicker from her son to her husband as she speaks, "What about Jasper, little goose? He's not too old."

In the kitchen, the kid drops another pan, but this time he isn't laughing. He glares at his wife, who ignores him, playing with Fletcher's hair and chuckling to herself. She'd never be caught dead suggesting her daughter marry anyone normally, but she's out for blood right now.

"I don't wike Jasper, Momma. He's a mean boy."

The kid nods vehemently, muttering to himself.

After some thought, she offers, "Juniper is nice. I marry her, wike Dewwy and Juwia! And we could cwime trees awwwwl day!"

"You could, if you want," Katniss smiles. I'm wondering who else the girl is going to come up with, and trying not to think about Effie, and normalcy, and happy-ever-afters during all of this.

"Nutmeg, you do know you don't have to marry anyone, right?" her father walks in from the kitchen, and swings her up from the chair into his arms. "You can just be my girl forever, okay?"

"You're so siwwy, Daddy," she giggles.

"I may be silly, but you're still my girl," he holds her upside-down and blows raspberries on her stomach as she squeals helplessly. Eventually, they're chasing each other around the kitchen with delight, both of them stumbling and laughing without a care in the world while Katniss watches and chuckles from the table.

I should be thrilled, or at least gloating. I know when Katniss was pregnant there was always a part of the kid that worried he wouldn't be able to run and play because of his leg. I told him he was an idiot, anyone who managed to run through the Games the way he did could certainly chase around some little kids and, of course, I was right.

But, " _There is no way in hell this sweet, beautiful little girl could ever win the Games_ ," is the only thing I can find myself able to think about.

When my beer is finished, I leave without a word.

I drink an entire bottle of white liquor for dinner and ignore the phone when it rings.

* * *

Early the next morning I wake to the sensation of someone cracking my head open with a hammer, but it's actually just the weak, but insistent pounding on my door. My mouth opens to shout for whoever it is to go away, but it feels like my face is stuffed with cotton, and I have to close my lips against the sensation. I slowly lift myself off of the ground after it becomes apparent that whoever it is isn't going to stop, and throw the door open, harshly bellowing, "What the hell do you want?"

But there's no one there.

Well, no one until I look down.

Hope is in her pajamas, holding a blanket, looking very scared, and on the verge of tears. I wince, and try to hold myself up. I'm not drunk anymore, at least I don't think I am, but the hangover's so bad, I might as well be: it's basically the same level of impairment.

"Daddy's sick," she hiccups. "I scared, 'Aymitss."

"Where's your momma, firefly? She wouldn't want you out here alone like this."

"She's sad. Daddy says Momma hasta sweep but den Fwetcher was cryin' an' Daddy fewl down and he's  _sick_ , Aymiss."

Without another word, I pick her up and run across the yard. It feels like my eyeballs are going to fall out, but I deal with it. I find the kid on the floor, his son crying softly in his basket on the table. I pick Fletcher up and he instantly nuzzles into me. He's hungry, but obviously I can't do a thing about it. Peeta hasn't had an episode like this in two years, but the baby's runny nose and hot forehead explain well enough where it came from.

"Let's get your momma, firefly."

I take the girl's hand and we walk up the stairs. All the while, Hope keeps telling me over and over, "No, Aymitss! Momma needs to sweep today. S' _important_. Daddy says." She fights me the whole way, yanking on my hand with every bit of strength available in her little body. Eventually, I have to adjust the baby and pick her up too.

When I reach Katniss' door, I don't even bother turning the knob, I just kick it open, breaking the latch. I don't give a damn how messed up she is, she's gonna wake the hell up right now to feed her sick son and take care of her scared daughter.

"Get up, Katniss," I say darkly, as she sits up slowly, looking at me like I'm a stranger. The baby begins wailing, and the sound jars her a little. She reaches out her arms and takes him, drawing his little body to herself to nurse, but still looking half-dead. As he nurses, little by little, she comes to life. I stand at the foot of the bed, hating her for tuning out like this, and hating myself for being so drunk that a little girl knocked on my door for damn near five minutes while the kid was passed out on the floor.

"The baby's sick," I tell her. "Get the hell up and take care of him."

I heave Hope onto the bed and look into her eyes. "Your dad was worried about your mom, firefly, but you need to make certain she gets out of this bed. Do you understand me? I'm gonna take care of your dad now, but don't you let her go back to sleep, okay? You're the only one in this house that ain't sick right now."

She nods, eyes wide, and snuggles up to her mother, watching her like a hawk.

I give Katniss one more glare, and I can see that she's starting to really snap out of it. At least, if the enormous tears that are running down her face while her three year old tries to comfort her are any indication.

"I messed up too, sweetheart," I state gruffly before I close the door behind me. It won't completely shut because I kicked it open. Someone's gonna have to fix that.

The kid is moaning on the floor when I reach him, scrambling to get himself up in what seems like slow motion.

"I need to get the doctor," he mutters, "Fletcher's sick. Haymitch, we need to get the doctor."

"Calm down, boy," I tell him. "Girl's feeding him. It's just a fever. He'll be fine."

Before I know it, I'm three inches off the floor, pushed up against the wall. No one, not a single person in the past forty five years has ever managed to get the upper hand on me like this. But right now, the boy's hardly a person. His eyes are black, pupils blown up so big it's like he doesn't have irises at all, and his breath is coming in inhumanly short gasps.

" **Get. The. Doctor. For. My.**   **Son**." he growls. Every word is punctuated by a shove that slams me harder against the wall. By the last word, I'm on the verge of throwing up, and it feels like my heart is going to fly out of my ribcage. I'd trade about a year of my life to have not drank so much last night.

"Can't do that unless you put me down, kid," I hiss at him. It feels like one of my ribs is broken. He doesn't let me go easily, instead slamming me back down, baring his teeth as he does. I remember him like this before, when Katniss was lost in the woods almost twenty years ago now. That was a rough day, and frankly, if I had some monster living inside of me, I'd have probably lost it too. But, now seems different. Much as I don't know about babies, I do know that runny noses and fevers aren't instantly something to worry over. Especially to someone who has already seen at least one child make it to the talking stage.

"Go," he shoves me toward the door, and it takes all the balance I have left to keep from falling on my face.

"No."

I have to spin and duck as his fist flies towards me. I use the downward momentum to tackle him, pretty damn surprised that I can, but I've taken him by surprise.

"Peeta!" I shout his name as I struggle to hold him down. The name more than the restraint gets his attention, and he focuses on me, his irises coming back into view, but only slightly.

"The baby is  _okay_ , kid. You have to calm down. Hope's gonna hear you destroying the house."

"Hope? Katniss? Where are they?" he asks as though he's a hundred miles away.

"She's awake. Feeding your son. Who just has a  _fever_. Hope had fevers too, kid. It's okay."

"Can't lose him, not another one," he mutters, eyes flickering back and forth, probably not seeing a thing.

I sigh with frustration, "I know, kid, I know. You're not gonna lose him. Little one's not gonna lose her brother. In a few years, they're gonna be causing so much havoc you're hardely gonna be able to deal with it…"

Annnd he's passed out again. I can't risk it, leaving him loose. He might not be trying to kill anyone, but his enthusiasm to make certain that his kid gets better is almost just as bad. He wakes up crazy again, I'm gonna end up with a fractured skull. If I bring a doctor, someone who'll tell him the truth, that the baby will be fine with some fever reducer and time, well, that doctor's likely to end up with a broken arm. I don't want anyone coming up here and somehow getting the impression that the two of them are unfit parents, because they're  _not_. Everyone in the district knows it.

But I still don't trust half the district as far as I can throw them. Which, considering how old I am, is really not far at all.

Using more realistic strength that I still didn't realize I possessed, and a tolerance for pain that I actually have known about for a while, I hoist the kid into a chair, despite the agony in my ribcage. There's rope in a cabinet for just this sort of a situation, and I use it to tie his hands and feet to the legs of the chair. Not too tight, really. If he wanted to get out in a coherent state, he definitely could, but I think that it should be enough to keep him calm if he wakes up crazy.

I dig through all of the cupboards looking for fever medicine, but I can't find any. Heading up the stairs, I knock on the door of the master bedroom before I come in. The girl is holding the baby, Hope leaning up against her side. Both the kids are crying quietly, and Katniss herself looks like she's going to fall apart. But instead, she's singing to them softly, stroking their heads.

"Where's your fever medicine, sweetheart?" I ask.

She shakes her head, "We gave the last of it to Hope a week ago, and there hasn't been any at the apothecary since then. He's been ill." She makes to get up out of the bed, but I hold out my hand.

"Is he okay?" her voice is thin and brittle. "We could hear him shouting."

Hope starts to sob at the recollection, which startles the baby. His fussy noises turn into full-blown wails.

"He's worried about the baby, that's all," I assure them vaguely. "He'll be fine. But stay up here with the kids for now."

The girl wiggles free of her mother, and runs to me, grabbing onto my leg, "'Aymitss I wanna see my Daddy!"

I crouch down beside her, hissing as my ribs ache on the way down, "I told you, firefly. You need to take care of your mom right now. I need someone brave up here. Someone who won't run away."

On the bed, Katniss makes a strangled noise of pain. I'm still disgusted with her. But, if I'm honest, it's only because of how disgusted I am with myself. If I had been sober this morning instead of hung over, maybe none of this would have happened. If I had stayed around long enough last night to recognize Katniss falling into one of her moods, maybe I could have helped somehow. But I had to get wasted just because I'm too much of a coward to deal with what bothers me.

The kid is still unconscious when I pick up the phone downstairs. Luckily, there's a nice little list of numbers on the table where it sits. The only number I know belongs to Effie, and there's not much she can do from the Capitol.

Today, part of me hates her for it a little more than usual.

"Vick Hawthorne," his nasally voice declares after a ring and a half.

"I need some medicine."

He coughs with annoyance, "Haymitch, I am a highly advanced pharmaceutical researcher, not the local apothecary. Get yourself sober and take the five minute walk to town. Now if you'll excuse me, I have important matters to–"

"Fletcher has a fever, Vick."

"Give me approximately fifteen minutes."

The line goes dead.

Kid's still unconscious slumped over his chair, and I don't have the resolve to deal with the girl right now. I ease myself down onto the couch, gingerly touching my ribs to try to figure out if they're broken or just bruised. Frankly, I don't have a clue how to tell the difference, and I'm not about to go to a doctor to find out. I hate doctors, with their, "Mr. Abernathy, the strain on your heart from this drinking and your anxiety levels is going to have catastrophic consequences in a few years if you don't change your lifestyle."

No one needs that kind of bullshit. I do what I have to in order to maintain the few fragments of sanity I have left.

But today just goes to show the kind of dangerous line that I'm walking. There's a little girl, and now a little boy, who somehow have managed to depend on me of all people to keep an eye on their parents. I'm the only person who manages to stay in the neighborhood for any length of time, so there's no one else, really. I mean, the girl's mother comes regularly enough, but the visits are always strange, full of some kind of weary sadness. I tend to keep to myself whenever they happen. I don't know what the hell to say to the woman who abandoned her own daughter into my care, no matter how good her reasons were.

You'd think that Hazelle'd keep an eye on things, but she's rarely in Twelve anymore, now that Posy is going to some kind of teacher's college in the Capitol. Never expected it from such a stern Seam girl, but the woman loves to travel more than anyone else I've ever met. Right now she's in Seven with Johanna and her granddaughter. Apparently, Jasper got so unruly that Gale decided it'd be a good idea to take a week off to haul his kid out into the woods and knock some sense into him. I don't know how much a five-year-old is gonna learn from a camping trip, but I guess they've gotta try. Alder's been here in Twelve for most of the summer again, doing some kind of internship with his uncle.

He's the one Gale should be taking into the woods.

The longer I sit on the couch, the worse my head feels. I want a drink so damn bad I can barely cope. The self-loathing makes it exponentially more difficult to resist. I've already let Hope down so hard today, what the hell does it even matter?

I bite the inside of my cheek, and force myself to think about something else, but the only thing that comes to mind is probably one of the last things I ever want to consider. I know why the kid is so protective of Fletcher, why he worries when he's sick. He doesn't love him more than Hope, not at all, but in Peeta Mellark's life, the women are never the ones you have to worry about.

Two dead brothers weigh pretty heavy on his mind now that his little girl has one.

I should know.

Why out of everyone did they have to take Colm? He was  _seven_. Fucking seven years old. So excited when I came home. Didn't care about the money, or the food, or a damn thing. Just wanted me back. But the took him, with his crooked teeth and genial disposition, and just all-around being the most inoffensive little human that has ever graced the earth. And after getting the measles the year before I was reaped, he couldn't even  _ **see**_.

They wouldn't make it clean or easy. Had to butcher him, all three of them, and then stick them in Tansy's house and made it look like they died in a fire. But I saw enough death to know how it happened. Everyone in the district suspected it, after the way the Quell ended.

My ma. My blind baby brother. My girl.

 _My unborn kid_. A little heap of flesh I hadn't even known had existed until the Capitol coroner pulled me aside in the rubble and patted my shoulder sadly. Tansy'd never said, and I… I just thought she was fattening up cause they suddenly had so much food so they looked like normal people in those interviews. He waited, that bastard. Waited to kill them until after I came home. Until I noticed I'd knocked her up. Who knows? 

I was young, didn't exactly want to be a father, but, I was also rich, which made me in some ways more suited to have a kid than anyone else in the damn district. We could have done it, Tansy and I. Could have brought him up right and maybe, just maybe, I would have wanted to fight this rebellion years before I actually did. Or, if she hadn't wanted a kid… I would have  _understood_. But, she was murdered because of me and I'll never know. I don't even know  _why_  I didn't know.

_Why the hell didn't she tell me?_

I need a drink or I'm gonna end up slitting my own wrists to make this stop.

The knock at the door shakes me out of it, and I stumble to my feet to let Vick in. Before I open the door I take a deep breath and try to clear my head of everything that's flooded it over the past hour.

He's there but he's not alone, his nephew is standing behind him. Neither of them bothered to take off their lab coats in their rush. A little ways away on the road is the motorized bike-type thing that Vick built when he came home from school about a decade ago, and which he  _insists_  on using to get anywhere. They must have taken it here together.

What a visual.

Alder's taller than ever, with that embarrassing shadow of dark hair ghosting an upper lip that he hasn't yet attempted to take a razor to. He looks… excited, which is pretty abnormal for him. Before Vick even opens his mouth, he's rushing into the house.

"Peeta had an episode, didn't he? I would like to see it! I've seen the videos, but I'm certain they can't do justice to the actual experience." He's rubbing his hands together and his eyes are flashing, as though he's about to partake in one of the greatest pleasures this life has to offer.

For once, I'm stunned into complete silence. Vick's actually the first to recover.

" _WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, ALDER_?" he somehow manages to hiss and bellow at the same time, crossing the room and holding his hand up as though to smack the kid before he thinks better of it.

I didn't think Vick Hawthorne had the capacity to get this angry.

"You said you wanted to join me to  _help_ ," he continues, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Gawking at my dearest friend's pain is entirely another matter. If I had even suspected you wanted such a thing… I understand that you don't often experience the same kind of emotions that other people do, but if you cannot at least  _attempt_  to provide a reasonable facsimile, no one is going to allow you to ever observe their problems, let alone solve them as you are so constantly certain you have the ability to do."

The runt looks confused, "But uncle, unless we observe the episodes as they happen, how can we provide a proper cure?"

Vick runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up all over the place and sighs heavily.

"Alder, that's really quite beyond us, I'm afraid."

"What are you talking about? We're two of the most brilliant minds in Panem. Don't think I haven't looked at your intelligence quotient scores. They're all on file at our school database. You'd think the institution would be more prepared to secure them from interception, but apparently not."

Vick's mouth hangs open.

"What I am saying, uncle, is that perhaps others have attempted and failed to cure Peeta, but neither of us has ever tried."

I bark out a laugh, despite the way this morning has gone. I can't even help it. This kid is just too much.

His uncle ignores me completely, "Have you even  _read_  Doctor Applethorpe's research, Alder? She's the preeminent neurosurgeon in the nation with years of experience and data on the subject behind her. That's not something that a pharmaceutical chemist and a  _thirteen-year-old_  are capable of refuting."

"But my dad…" the kid trails off.

His uncle's eyes get soft, and I slowly back away from the whole situation. I wish I could leave completely, but I need to get this damn medicine. This kid has never said anything even remotely resembling emotion, so I can't just interrupt, and ask for it either.

"What about your dad?"

The boy sighs with frustration, "He says that I need to do something important. That I'm too smart to just keep getting kicked out of school and causing problems. And I  _know_ that the Mellarks are important to him. So if I can fix Peeta Mellark…"

"Nobody can fix me," a weary voice says from behind me, "not even you, Alder. Although I'm sure if it were possible, the two of you'd be my best hope."

I swing my head around. The kid's there, looking like himself. He holds out the ropes.

"Your knotting skills are kind of going downhill, Haymitch," he grins a little.

Vick pulls three different vials out of a leather bag on his shoulder and hands them over.

"There's been an upper respiratory infection spreading throughout the district. I had samples brought in a few weeks ago for examination. Just a cold, really, nothing too serious, but these should make the symptoms easier on the baby. I can try to examine him if you want, but unless he's manifested something other than fever and a runny nose…"

The baby's not really the one any of us are worried about, and everyone in this room knows it.

"Thanks Vick. It was really great of you to come all the way out here. You too, Alder. But, if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure that Fletcher takes this," the kid shakes both their hands graciously.

The two Hawthornes make their goodbyes, and I am following them out the door, when the boy puts his hand on my shoulder and pulls me back.

"Did I hurt anyone?" he whispers in terror.

My ribs scream their response.

"Nah, kid. Everyone's just fine. Go upstairs and take care of your damn family."

I shut the door behind me with a finality that he doesn't understand.

* * *

The bottles of white liquor are lined up on the table and next to them is my knife. The phone has rung ten times this afternoon, but I haven't answered it once. Effie's probably furious with me, ignoring her two days in a row.

She's going to be even more pissed when I off myself.

I knock the knife off of the table and it skitters across the floor. Who am I kidding? If I were the sort of man who could kill himself, or even thought it was a good idea, I would have done it forty years ago. But doing that when everyone else is dead always seemed a coward's move. And I like to think I'm not that much of a coward, whatever else I may be.

But even if I'm not the type of man for suicide, the memories of flames reaching high into the sky won't go away. Of ma's tears when I came home. Of Colm's little hands, touching my face incredulously. And Tansy, when I held her for the first time outside of the arena. Maybe even the night I managed to make everything so. much. worse.

I let them down, so damn eager to be smart. I got them killed, and now they only ever leave me in the moments that I'm too drunk to function. Moments that are becoming fewer and fewer, the more I try to stay conscious enough to be a good… whatever the hell it is that I am for these kids.

There's no way to win. No way to get away from this. I can't function sober, and I let them down if I'm drunk. I've never felt so fucking defeated in my life. There's no Capitol here. No Thirteen. No one but me and my own pathetic inability to live in any way that resembles a normal man.

Somehow I managed to make it all this time without ever giving a damn about this until now.

Fuck it.

The bottles are on the table.

"Over the teeth, past the gums, look out stomach, here it comes," I mutter, popping a cork and holding the bottle to my lips.

"Aymitss!" the door slams open.

Before I can get a drink, she's wrapped herself around my legs. I lose my grip on the bottle completely, and it shatters on the floor. I pick her up quickly, pulling her away from the mess, and immediately, there's a flash of white obstructing my vision completely. I reach up and grab whatever it is so I don't end up tripping and knocking both of us into a pile of glass and booze.

"I drew a picher of our famiwy," the girl says. And she has.

There's the sun. And their house, as well as a lot of other little details that I can't make out for the life of me. Starting on the right is a broad character with a head that looks like a dandelion, all yellow and spikey. It's holding a tiny little sausage that has a dandelion head too. Next to them is a tiny figure with two dark lines on either side of its very circular, bald head. It might be holding the hand (or maybe foot?) of a taller figure, with one dark line instead of two. And then, on the end, is a very round figure with dark hair, holding a stubby brown stick and surrounded by strange white objects with orange splotches underneath them. I think they might be geese.

It's me.

A picture of her family.

Katniss follows her daughter inside, gazing at me with an intense look in her eyes. She strides across the kitchen, her boots crunching on the broken glass, and then she does something that I never would have expected in a million years.

"Thank you," she murmurs, pulling me in for a hug, "you stupid drunk."

I lift up my foot and kick the table as hard as I can.

All of the bottles of white liquor explode on the floor like liquid fireworks.


	6. Four

“Why’s Momma sad?” she asks me out of nowhere, blue eyes wide, peering out of the ridiculous fur-lined hood she’s wearing. The wind whips the fur into her face and she brushes it away with annoyance with a mitten-covered hand. I adjust the layers of jackets I’m wearing, and try to think of a way to answer without actually answering.

We’re playing in the snow.

The snow.

The _fucking_ snow.

I absolutely cannot stand it when it’s cold. I hate it when the sun goes away and it’s dark all the time. I hate feeling _anything_ that’s even remotely reminiscent of winter. The older I get, the stronger my loathing grows. And yet here I am playing in the depths of it. She showed up this morning at my door in her little coat with the enormous white fuzzy hood, looking kinda similar to one of those puffed sugar things I had with Effie in the Capitol on her last birthday…what were those damn things called…?

Oh yeah. Marshmallows.

So when a blue-eyed marshmallow shows up at your door begging for you to make snow angels with her… well, maybe there is a man somewhere in Panem who could say no, but that man sure as hell ain’t me. 

So we’re out here: me, her, the kid, and the baby, who looks more like a sausage than anything all wrapped up in his winter duds. I’ve been helping his sister make a snowman, while also creating a small stockpile of snowballs to use against her father when the time is right. He’ll never know what hit him.

The girl is holed up in her room with her yearly case of relentlessly creeping misery. It’s been better this year, to be honest. This is the only day so far that she’s locked herself away, and the winter has been long. It’s still hard on all of them, though. Kid won’t say much about it, but his eyes say enough. Fletcher is sitting in front of him in a little snow hollow, squealing with delight about every ten seconds. He’s only just realized he can smack the white stuff around and make it fly in the air. He’s a really noisy baby, singing out “dadadadadadadadadaaaa!” and other meaningless semi-musical sounds at pretty regular intervals in his deep little voice. He can say quite a few words now, unlike Hope who was quiet for so long, but I think he just likes to make noise in general.

Normally this sort of thing makes his father beam with joy, but today the smile doesn’t quite reach the kid’s eyes.

“Why’s Momma sad, Aymitch?” the girl asks again, this time turning away from accessorizing her snowman and looking directly at me. I cringe on the inside. I guess this day has been coming for years, but I can’t say I’m thrilled that it’s arrived.

Things are never gonna be the same again. It’s no longer enough, just saying that her mom’s sad, or her dad’s sick. Now that the girl understands that people aren’t usually sad for no reason, she’s not gonna rest until she finds out what that reason is.

But I don’t think I’m allowed to provide it.  Even if I am, it’s just not my place when her dad’s right here. So I gnaw on the inside of my cheek and try to stall for time. The kid can’t hear us now; he’s busy pulling his son around the yard on a little sledge that he and I made for the girl two winters ago. Mostly he did it, and I stood back watching and giving half-drunk advice. But he tells people we made it together.

Strange thing is, I think it’s more for his benefit than it is for my reputation. For some reason he wanted us to do it together.

I’m not his damn dad.

“She’s scared. I heard when we were sleepin’,” Hope continues, reaching out for my sleeve and grasping it in her mitten. “What’s ‘prim,’ Aymitch?” she tugs, looking at me with insistent eyes.

My mouth is filled with the metallic taste of blood as I bite down hard on my cheek. I thought she knew. I thought they’d told her that Primrose had existed, at least. Maybe showed her that memory book that took about five years off my life when I contributed to it? Guess not. She doesn’t know a damn thing.

It’s then that I’ve realized the baby’s stopped screaming, and actually has been quiet for a while.

Long enough.

Peeta stands up sadly and tips his head toward his son, giving me a look that doesn’t allow for argument. The baby crawls, or maybe tumbles off the sledge and buries his face into the snow, chuckling in his gravely little voice.

“Maybe your dad better tell you about this, firefly,” I mutter to the girl. She looks hurt a little, like she wanted to hear it from me. It tears me apart inside to go.

But she ain’t my kid.

As we pass each other, I grasp the kid’s shoulder and squeeze, immediately feeling embarrassed about it. He sits down beside her and pats his lap. “Come here, nutmeg,” he says softly.

“Why does prims make Momma scared an’ sad, Daddy?” she asks, climbing into his lap and leaning back into his arm. “What’s a prim?”

Fletcher throws a fistful of snow into my face, then cackles, I mean _really_ cackles, as I cough.

Just like his mother, this one.

“Well,” Peeta clears his throat, “a primrose is a flower. That’s the real name of the yellows.” She loves the things, always making little chains of them and pulling off the petals to shred them into confetti that she sprinkles on everyone. But no one ever felt the need to tell her they were called anything other than “lellows.”

“Momma’s scared of the lellows?”

He shakes his head, “No, she loves them very much, actually. But they make her sad too.”

“But, Daddy, how can somethin’ you love make you sad?”

The sigh he heaves echoes through the past half a century and sits heavily on my chest.

“Do you remember when one of your geese got lost? And you cried and it hurt because you loved her?”

I remember and she does too. It might have been one of the worst days in the past ten years. Late in the fall, a fox or something managed to take away one of her little family of geese. It was her favorite actually, the one with a strange pink mark around its eye. Of course, she noticed it was missing before anyone else did. It took days for us to calm her down.

It should have taken a week for me to build the little house to keep them in at night, but I did it in a day and a half.

She shakes her head angrily, eyes filling with tears. “I don’t understand why Pinkie would go, Daddy! I loved her! An’ she went away!”

“I know it hurt a lot, Hope. But you were sad because you loved Pinkie, right?”

She nods, biting her lip.

This is terrible for him, I can tell. Doing this alone, especially. But I don’t think he can wait anymore. People aren’t like geese. You can’t just pretend they wandered off.

“But you still want to remember her, right? Even though she’s gone?” he lifts her chin gently, and their matching eyes look at each other, one pair soft and reassuring, the other confused and sad. The tears threaten to spill out all over again, but she holds in her sobs and nods.

Fletcher throws something once more. Only this time he’s dug down deep enough to get a rock, and he hits me right in the eye, laughing hysterically when I bellow. Hell, if he were throwing things at anyone other than me or his sister, I’d be laughing too. But my face hurts like a son of a bitch.

“Damn it, junior!” I hiss before I can stop myself.

“Ahmih!” he repeats back, cackling.

I rub my eye socket and glare at him. He giggles even more at the attention.

Just. like. his. mother.

To keep him busy, I pull him around on the sledge some more while the kid talks to the girl. The baby is not very balanced even now, so he rolls off backwards into a snow pile and laughs and laughs and laughs, kicking out his feet and arms and rolling around. I wonder if his dad laughed this much when he was a baby. I wouldn’t be surprised.

When there’s finally quiet again, I can hear the girl ask, “Prim was Momma’s baby sister?” I guess he managed to explain it while I was acting like a damn cart-horse.

“She was. Your momma lost her, and it makes her very, very sad. But she wants to remember her too, so we have the flowers.”

For a minute, she just sits quietly, taking it all in. Then pretty abruptly and without a word, the girl jumps out of his lap and barrels towards me, turning away at the last minute. She flings herself on top of her brother in the snow pile and clutches him tight.

“You hafta stay, Fletcher,” she whispers as the baby babbles and pulls at her braids.

Her dad turns his head and makes a strangled sound of pain.

I do nothing.

Just like usual.

Their little moment is thankfully over when we hear the Hawthorne’s door open, and Posy comes outside dressed in a smart grey wool jacket and a white beret that stands out starkly against the darkness of her hair. Capitol clothes. But, she was just there, so I guess it makes sense.

“A snowman!” she says with excitement, running towards us, ponytail swishing just like always, “I don’t think I’ve made a snowman since Alder was a baby.” Not surprising. If she made a snowman with the twins, Juniper would try to climb it and Jasper would likely try to make it explode.

“Yeah, well, don’t expect me to make another one for you,” I mutter, trying to keep her from noticing how torn up the kid is. Hope and her brother are rolling around in the snow, momentary sadness forgotten, giggling as they tumble around. She’s as gentle with him as he is rough with her.

Posy wrinkles her freckle-covered nose and rolls her eyes, “That’s alright Haymitch. I’m pretty certain it wouldn’t be up to my high snowman standards anyway.” Her entire demeanor changes, and she turns to the kids, “Hope, I came out to tell you something.”

Hope lifts herself off the ground, realizing that Posy’s there. She runs over to the youngest Hawthorne (well, youngest-oldest Hawthorne) and wraps herself around her legs.

“Posy, you’re home!” she squeals happily.

The kid clears his throat and it looks as though he’s pretty much pulled himself together. “Welcome back! We missed you around here,” he coughs.

Fletcher lies on his back blowing raspberries as loud as he possibly can and trying to bring his feet up high enough to put them in his mouth. His thick snow clothes are doing a pretty good job in prohibiting his movement, though. He does not give a damn that anyone is home, long as he gets fed and has something to throw.

Posy kneels down and hugs the girl tight, laughing as Hope babbles a mile a minute about the things that she’s been doing in the time that her neighbor has been gone. Somewhere in there is a story about the time I tried to make them all dinner and set the oven on fire, the baby squirrel that we nursed back to health together (I have no real clue how we managed), the day that her dad started teaching her how to paint, and the news that she now goes into the woods with her mom at least once a week, but only to find plants because she doesn’t want to hurt animals.

Somehow the older girl manages to take in all this.

“You should save those stories, Hope!” she smiles. That’s the thing about this girl. She is pretty much the world’s most unflappable human. I guess out of the bunch of crazies in her family, she’s the only one who _really_ managed to take after Hazelle in any sort of practical way.

Hope cocks her head, “What for?”

“Well, you’ll probably want to have them to tell during Share Time when you’re in school this fall.”

This is answered by a really severe nose wrinkle. Surprisingly, the girl hasn’t been thrilled with the idea of school. I don’t know why. She gets along well with other kids, except for Jasper. The last time they saw each other, she ripped out an entire fistful of his hair. Other than him, though, she’s happy to see kids, and it’s not like she spends every minute wrapped around her parents’ legs.

But every time anyone mentions school, she stomps around like Katniss on a rainy hunting day.

“I don’t _wanna_ go to school,” she huffs. “I’m gonna be a baker like Daddy and work with him every day, ‘cept for when I go with Momma in the woods an’ when I ‘ave to make the animals better with Aymitch.” She finishes by crossing her arms angrily and glaring at all of us, even Fletcher, who is still trying to eat his feet. I think he’s too old to be doing that, but what the hell do I know?

The smile on Posy’s face is so wide it’s pushing her cheeks into her eyes. “Are you certain? Because I’ve heard the new teacher’s pretty neat.”

“You know I won’t let anyone work in the bakery unless they go to school,” the kid chimes in, picking up his son and swinging him over his shoulder as the boy screams with glee.

I shrug, “I’m not letting anyone without an education bring animals into my house.”

Hope crinkles her nose and sighs. “Who’s the new teacher?” she inquires with pretty deep-seated suspicion for a four-year-old.

“Me,” Posy winks.

Just like that, the past month and a half of complaining is completely forgotten, “You?!? Posy! I can’t _wait_ to go to school!”

“You’ll have to call me Miss Hawthorne, you know.”

Her back goes as rigid as a post and she nods seriously. “Yes, Miss Hawthorne.”

Posy chuckles and her ponytail shakes, “Not now, silly. In the school. We still don’t have a lot of children, so you’ll be with everyone up to Jasper and Juniper’s age.”

Hope’s nostrils flare, “Jasper’s mean.” Lucky for her, the Hawthorne-Mason household hasn’t yet seen fit to leave Two permanently.

Peeta chuckles, then turns the sound awkwardly into a cough when he realizes that we’ve all noticed. Fletcher knocks his hat off of his father’s head, and begins to pull on his ear vigorously and the kid, grateful for the redirection, tosses his son in the air repeatedly. The boy squeals with delight. It’s adorable.

It’s also giving me one hell of a headache.

“Well, fun as this has been, I think I’m gonna go take a nap. Didn’t expect to wake up this early this morning.” Truth is, I don’t really feel any more tired than I would have if I had woken up on my own. Being outside was actually kind of invigorating. It’s all this talk of Primrose that has me kind of desperate for isolation and alcohol.

And I think I need to put a steak on my eye. I’m guessing the baby gave me a shiner. 

I’ve made it about halfway to my door when she’s in front of me, hands on her hips, full of the kind of pissy self-righteousness that only a little kid can pull off. Although her mother tries occasionally.

“Are you _sure_ you ‘ad fun Aymitch?” she scowls suspiciously.

Now she’s picked up on sarcasm too. I’m absolutely screwed.

“I did, firefly,” I admit both to her and myself.

“Are you _really_ tired?” she presses, raising her eyebrow.

I shrug, about to admit defeat, when Posy’s bright, “Well good morning, Katniss,” pulls the girl’s attention away from me.

“Momma!” she cries out, a little more soft and gentle than usual. Her little legs rush her to her mother’s side, but the kid is already there, pulling his wife into his arms, their son mushed between them, looking more like a sausage than ever. His squealing has exponentially increased in volume. The look on Peeta’s face can only be described as shock. But a really good kind of shock, I guess. Hope makes it to them a few seconds later, and grabs onto both of their knees.

“You woke up,” she and the kid both say at once.

Katniss smiles weakly, but it’s a smile all the same. It outshines the dark circles under her eyes, and her rat’s nest of a hairstyle enough to make her look halfway human.

“Didn’t want to miss playing in the snow,” she croaks. “There’s not too much winter left, after all.”

With this pleasant little reunion, I figure I can sneak away unnoticed, but I’m wrong.

“Aymitch, you _can’t_ go now that my momma’s here,” Hope pleads.

I turn, about to argue, knowing I’m going to lose.

At just that moment, a snowball explodes in my face.

“You’re gonna pay for that, sweetheart,” I growl

* * *

“Didn’t you know? All old people know each other,” I say through a mouthful of roast turkey, explaining to the girl how Hazelle and I had come to make Beetee’s fine acquaintance. Hazelle chuckles softly as she reaches for a roll, pausing to effortlessly catch Fletcher’s spoon as it flies across the table.

“Pretty good shot, that one,” she comments.

Hope is not satisfied with my explanation at all. “But Sae doesn’t know him an’ she’s prolly a hundred,” she insists. On her plate, her food is split into small sections, and she’s been eating one pea at a time for the past ten minutes. Peas are her least favorite.

I steal half of them.

Katniss looks ready to correct her daughter for being rude (and me for taking her peas away), but Sae chuckles and shakes her head, “Jus’ about, baby girl. Jus’ about.” I guess that’s true. She’s eighty now, I think maybe. Now that we can eat right, and aren’t all half-dying of one thing or another, I suppose sixty-year-old women won’t look quite so old, but the change didn’t come soon enough for Greasy Sae. Her skin is so wrinkled and paper-thin I think it would shred on the tine of a fork. She looked sixty at forty and eighty not long afterwards.

We’re all sitting around the Hawthorne’s table at an impromptu welcome-home dinner for Posy, now that she’s finished her teacher’s school or whatever it was in the Capitol. Thanks to the baby, my eye’s swelled up so big I can’t nearly see, but I have to say, despite that I haven’t felt this comfortable around a group of people in a really long time.

And also been sober, I suppose I should add.

Maybe it’s because, for once, the people around are relics like me.

Hazelle, I’m not ashamed to say, looks damn good. It’s almost like the decades have gone backward for her since the war. Now that she’s eating regularly and the stress of feeding four kids on a poacher’s kills and washerwoman’s salary has disappeared, the years have fallen away. She’s so well-cared-for by her kids that she could basically lay around doing nothing for the rest of her life, but she refuses to stop working when she’s not off gallivanting to the four corners of the country.

It makes Effie jealous that the woman cleans my house every week, so I try to mention how good Hazelle looks as often as I can to keep things interesting. I’ll be honest, though: I’m terrified of her. I’m pretty certain that if I truly stepped out of line, she’d tear me in half. If I saw her more regularly, I don’t know if I could manage going any length of time without messing up in some way or another. Not to mention the fact that I’d have to deal with the varying degrees of bizarre Hawthorne men on a regular basis, which is something I actively try to avoid.

Effie’s got nothing to worry about. I guess, to be embarrassingly frank, she’d probably have nothing to worry about even if Hazelle were less of a battle-axe, and her sons and grandsons were normal, well-adjusted people that a man could sit down and have a beer with. But she’s not gonna hear that from me anytime soon.

Speaking of which, I haven’t had a beer all day. It’s good and bad, I guess. After the kids had their simultaneous breakdowns, I got rid of all the hard liquor in the house. Beer fills you up more. It’s harder to get wasted that way than from my traditional fare of straight liquor, so it’s all I drink now. I can still see the awed look on Thom’s face as I handled him bottle after bottle of the most expensive spirits Effie had given me in exchange for his keeping me in homebrews. Since then, I try to have as few of them as I can: just enough to keep the deetees away, but not so much that I can’t adequately respond to any sort of disastrous situation.

I gotta say, these attempts have met with pretty varying levels of success.

Sometimes it’s hard as hell and I slip. I thought today was gonna be like that, once the girl started asking about her mom’s depression. The sort of day where one beer, three, five, aren’t enough, and it takes everything I have not to walk to town and re-bribe the local amateur distiller to sell me white liquor again. But I haven’t yet. And today turned out to be pretty all right.

Black eye and all.

Sae starts telling the story of old Callum McIntosh, the district drunk from back before my Games, when I was young enough to still believe the world was a place where you could maybe live a somewhat normal life. Anyway, McIntosh got so drunk one night he climbed, naked as the day he was born, up the side of the Hob and insisted we crown him king of the mines. He stayed there until his wife showed up and knocked him off the roof with a well-thrown brick. Sae tells the story so well that even Rory manages to crack a smile through that beard of his.

I’m surprised he isn’t keeping small animals in there.

“Ya ever climb the Hob, Haymitch?” he smirks lightly.

I shrug, “Not that I can remember. But, you know, considering the circumstances, it’s highly possible.”

“He never did,” Sae adds with certainty, as she winces and rubs her jaw. “Haymitch was pretty much the most boring drunk ever. Just throwing up on things and making a mess. Though, he did keep his clothes on, so that’s a mercy. He always paid for what he ruined too. Some folk used to throw their wares into his sick, just sos he’d pay ‘em in restitution.”

The girl snorts as she tries to get her son to eat, and the kid is grinning like a mule eating briars. Luckily, Hope is too busy babbling to Posy about school to hear the mundane details of my sordid past. I don’t give a damn about anyone else knowing, and it’s not like I’d lie. But she doesn’t have to know.

Don’t like the idea of her thinking less of me for something like that.

Everything feels so normal, so calm, like sorrow hasn’t grabbed every single one of us at the table and tried to shake us into pieces. There’s not a person here who didn’t lose someone through violent and unnatural means. All of Sae’s adult children were killed in the bombing. The Hawthornes lost their father, and, for a long time, Gale was as good as dead to anyone but Johanna. The kids and I lost nearly everyone but each other.

I can’t help but wonder what it’s gonna be like for Hope and Fletcher, growing up in a world where the people you love aren’t always teetering on the verge of death. What kind of adults are gonna end up being? At this point, I know from Effie that there is so much constant security placed on Twelve, and those two children specifically that, unless there’s somebody out there with something to prove and a lifetime of training as a professional assassin, they’re safer than Snow’s damn granddaughter was before the war.

Sae stands up and begins gathering plates to take them to the sink, but Hope is up in a flash, offering to help even before Hazelle can stand. Sae waves away the woman’s gruff and indignant protest, and she and the girl begin to clear the table. They walk over to the sink while Hope chatters on, asking questions about Sae’s granddaughter, Alice, without waiting for an answer. I turn to Rory to ask him a question about his ridiculous hermit lifestyle, when the tenor of the girl’s voice changes in a matter of seconds.

Inquisitive.

Then worried.

Then frantic.

Before I can even turn, there is a crash of the plate against the floor and a dull thump as the old woman’s body collapses on the ground.

Katniss is there first, flipping Sae unto her back and feeling for a pulse. Without a second thought, she starts breathing into the woman’s mouth and then pushing down on her chest. Since the Quell, she’s learned a thing or two.

“Momma… Momma!” Hope begins to wail. The kid is there in an instant, picking her up and taking her out of the room so she doesn’t have to see this. Posy leaves the table as well, and I can hear her pick up the phone and begin speaking urgently with whoever picks up on the other end. Rory runs out of the house faster than I’ve ever seen him move, and Hazelle follows, her mouth set in a thin, grim line.

Fletcher throws his spoon and it clatters noisily against the floor. He chuckles at the sound it makes, and then begins throwing his peas against the wall. They make almost imperceptible thumps that we can hear over the sound of Katniss’ hands thudding into Sae’s chest.

I do nothing.

Just like usual.

* * *

It’s hard for any of us to know how to react to a death that managed to be so spectacularly and wonderfully mundane.

Sae didn’t want a funeral, but they had one for her anyway. The things are for the living, not the dead, Hazelle insisted. There were enough others gone that we didn’t get to mourn properly, all buried in piles bones mixed in with one another underneath the pristine snow of the Meadow.

I was inclined to agree with her.

Peeta, Rory, and Thom had set up the bonfire the night before that softened the frozen ground so we could dig a grave. I wanted to help, but Katniss insisted on digging the whole thing herself at the crack of dawn. At least, I thought it was by herself, but seeing the weary look in Gale’s shoulders, I guess that he must have shown up to help her just as his early train arrived. He gave the eulogy while his daughter climbed a tree, watching from her perch. Johanna stood nearby in an old black leather coat, Alder stern beside her, holding Jasper’s hand.

The boy was quiet.

Everyone was quiet except for Fletcher, who squealed and sang his nonsensical baby songs from the comfort of his mother’s arms. Hope buried her face in her father’s neck and wouldn’t come up, even when it was all over and I made a dumb joke that she normally would have giggle hysterically at. I’m not certain whether it was a good thing, or a bad thing that they brought her. Guess she saw Sae die. After that, how much worse could it get? Maybe they figured she needed closure. Part of me just wants to pick her up and pull her away from all of this, though. To a place where death doesn’t ever think to stop by.

Sae’s granddaughter definitely didn’t understand any of it, so Posy took her to a quiet place a ways away from the ceremony. They sat together on the frozen ground playing cat’s cradle with a bit of string. Throughout the wake, the girl kept looking for Sae while Posy kept coming up with new ways to distract her. When it was time to leave, as Hazelle led Alice back to their home in Victor’s Village, the girl screamed. Screamed bloody murder – the sort of sound I’ve only ever heard come from the mother of a reaped child.

Or, in one horrible instance, the four-year-old daughter of a reaped eighteen-year-old.

There’s no more room in my heart for this kind of pain. Even like this, all neat and tidy, old age and long life and everything, death is still an ugly bitch.

As the boy, the girl and I are leading the kids home from the funeral, Peeta goes on ahead, sleeping baby in his arms, as Hope, refusing to be carried, drags the rest of us behind. The whole day the kid’s been halfway wrecked, clinging to his son, daughter, and wife like his life depends on it.

Or, more likely, because he’s so aware of what it is that he could lose.

This is normally the girl’s job. She’s the one who wouldn’t have children for years because there was the chance that they could die. Maybe the reckless abandon of motherhood somehow managed to bring her a peace that the kid will never really get. It’s hard to say, but I figure I’ll shotgun a few beers once I’m home so that I can forget about it completely.

We struggle through the snow in silence as the kid reaches the house shuts the door behind him. Through the kitchen window, I see him cradle Fletcher’s head in the crook of his neck and release breaths so shuddering that they can be seen even at this distance.

Katniss stops me before I reach the point where I’d go to my house and they’d go to theirs.

“Hope wants to talk to you about something,” she says, looking at her kid with a very small encouraging smile.

The girl buries her face in her mother’s pant leg, shaking her head in a violent no.

I have no idea what the hell is going on. “Are you sure about that?” I ask. The intended sarcasm in my voice falls flat, thudding against the snow.

Katniss nods gently, but holds up her hand signaling that I need to wait. I take a few steps away, and they share a whispered moment.

“I’m going to go inside. I’ll see you in a few minutes, little goose.”

Hope won’t look at me. She hasn’t looked at me, or talked to me since that moment in the kitchen. I don’t blame her. Four-year-olds shouldn’t have to see someone they care about die. Especially not this four-year-old.

“What’s eatin’ ya, firefly?” I ask, crouching down. My knees groan as I do, but I brush the pain away and sink into the snow

She swallows, and still won’t look at me.

“Are you old?” finally comes out.

I cough. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“Are you gonna die?”

Shit.

“Someday,” is all I can manage.

And the waterworks start. She still won’t look at me, but I can see the tears running down her chin and dripping onto the snow. Her body shakes, but she is stubborn like her mother, and is trying to hold it all in. We stand together for a long moment, before she turns and wraps her arms around me tightly, burying her head in my chest

“Please don’ die, Aymitch,” she whispers, clinging to me.

It takes a while to work my voice around the knot in my throat.

“Wasn’t planning on it, firefly.”

Eventually, I pick her up and carry her into the house, since she refuses to let go of me. I try to give her to Katniss, but her arms are like little steel bands around my neck. In the end, I spend the night squashed in her tiny little bed. I suppose I’ve slept in worse places.

Tomorrow, I guess it’s time to start exercising. 


	7. Six

“Why can’t I see Daddy at the bakery, Haymitch?” she asks, adjusting her backpack as I walk her home from school. The bag is halfway zipped shut, bits of drawings and some broken pencils peeking out of the top. Girl couldn’t manage to keep her things together neatly to save her life.

I yank hard on the cord that I’ve harnessed to her little brother, pulling him away from the fetid muck he was just about to dive into and dragging him back to us. He chuckles the entire time, quickly climbing to his feet when I’ve stopped, likely making his way towards the next dangerous or disgusting thing in close proximity. I’ve had him on this leash for half the day, after the girl dropped him off in a state. Apparently the kid burned himself bad enough in the bakery to leave him jumping at things that weren’t there, and she needed someone to watch the kids while she calmed him down. At first, I thought the baby and I’d be fine if we just sat out back watching the geese, me letting him do his baby stuff. After he nearly got his face bitten off, though, I decided that maybe he didn’t have the same relationship with animals as his sister, and it’d be best to keep him on a line.

“Your dad’s sick again, firefly,” I mutter, trying not to put too fine a point on it as the boy approaches a fat, lazy, town rat that’s sniffing around the overflowing garbage cans between the butcher shop and the grocer.

“Squrl,” he grunts in his hoarse voice, reaching out his hand slow and steady enough that I think if I let him, he might be able to catch the thing. It’s fat and stupid and lazy in the sunlight, and he’s surprisingly quick for someone who has no real control over his own bladder.

I yank again. “That ain’t no squirrel, junior.” This time, he toddles back to us, singing softly to himself.

Little maniac.

“But Haymitch, no one else’s dad gets sick like that,” the girl refuses to let it go. We walk a little ways down the street, and I’m trying to figure out how to answer this diplomatically when she halts in the middle of the road, scowling with angry suspicion.

“Is he jus’ makin’ up stories again so he can kiss Momma?”

She has got to be kidding me. That actually happened?

“Cause that’s not fair!” she stomps, thankfully moving on. “He _promised_ we’d make cookies with pansies on today!”

I’m pretty sure there isn’t a thing the kid would rather be doing, but he can’t.

“Sorry, firefly,” there isn’t really anything I can say other than that.

She inhales deeply, and for a second I think that she’s gonna throw some kind of a hissy fit, but she doesn’t, just kicks the rocks on the ground in front of her sadly. With her head bent down, I can see more clearly the drawing that’s sticking out of the back of her bag. She’s gotten better. A lot better, really. I won’t lie and say I’m not biased, and I don’t exactly have a lot to compare her to, but she’s a hell of a lot better at drawing people than I’d expect a six-year-old to be.

The picture I can see now is of her and her dad, making those damn cookies. The smiles on each of them are so big that they’d be terrifying on someone’s actual face. And I realize I have to do something to cheer her up, since she’s clearly been anticipating this for what might be days.

“Who’s your best friend in school?” I demand, just a bit too harshly.

Sadness replaced with confusion, she gives me a look that says I’ve finally gone off the deep end.

“Lindy,” she exaggerates the pronunciation, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and I have to be an absolute moron not to know.

“Lindy who?” I nudge her, chuckling. “You think I know any kids but you?”

“Lindy _Alberts_ ,” she sighs in exasperation. “You know? Her dad’s the _boss_ of the district.”

“The word’s “mayor,” firefly.”

Thom and his wife have been single-handedly trying to repopulate the district from the looks of their family. They’ve got, I dunno, something like eight kids at this point. I still don’t have a clue what all their names are, except for maybe the oldest, Sally, who sassed me the day the girl was born. They never stay still long enough for me to figure them out. Lindy, if I had to guess, is the baby they had a few months before Hope, the one that Susie shoved into Thom’s arms before taking off on the horse to see to the girl. I’ve seen her playing with Hope a few times. She’s a cute little thing I suppose. With her long honey colored hair and bright eyes somewhere in-between green, blue, and brown, she takes after her mother, and not her old man. Lucky for her, because Thom’s pretty damn homely. He was goofy-looking enough when he was young, but I don’t think in the past twenty years he’s spent more than ten minutes of unnecessary daylight inside. Even at forty, his skin is already as wrinkled as a piece of old leather.   

But most of the wrinkles look like lines that smiles have left behind, so I guess it’s not all bad. When I remember the mess the kid was in Thirteen most of the time, looking sallower than even I did going through withdrawal, I figure if he’s managed to find happiness at the expense of smooth skin, I guess it’s a pretty good trade-off.

I’m glad the war managed to slay at least one demon.

The first kid we see is maybe nine. With a mass of curly dark hair that seems to grow up instead of down and that stringbean of a body there are no real indicators of gender. I guess it doesn’t matter. I bet this is worm-eater with the runny nose and gender-neutral name.

“Lindy!” the kid bellows, and suddenly, as though from out of the ground, there are kids _everywhere_.

A girl in a dingy dress with smudges of dirt all over her face runs up to us and immediately she’s hugging Hope like there’s no tomorrow, barraging her with eager questions.

“You came to visit! Do you want to see my room? We can feed the horses! Why aren’t you at the bakery? Where’s your mom and dad?”  

Until the last question, the girl looked as excited as Lindy sounds, but at the mention of her parents, she pulls back and collapses into herself like a smashed brick wall.

“My dad’s sick,” she says with embarrassment. As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Lindy’s face drops.

“Oh,” the girl’s eyes get big and her shoulders slump with the realization. She looks incredibly uncomfortable. And the only way a six-year-old knows that she should be uncomfortable in a situation like this is if everyone around her acts this way.

That’s all I need to know. Hope’s earlier statement that no one else’s dad gets sick like hers is beginning to make more and more sense. I’m starting to get an inkling of what it is that she has to deal with.

Everyone in the district knows two things about their baker that they’d swear to:

There’s not a better man in the entirety of Panem.

He’s not quite… _right._

No one blames him, of course. Obviously, most people are old enough to remember that he’s a hero, somehow, even if they’re not certain why or how. But their other highly visible local hero, ol’ Senator Handsome, they only ever see on television and, because of that, it never appears that he even has a damn hair out of place, not to mention seeing him look vulnerable. Peeta’s a lot more public, the man they see at the bakery every day. He still forgets things pretty regularly, though he’s good-natured enough about it for no one to really mind. The problem is that every once and awhile, on days like today, the bakery is closed “due to illness.”

It’s pretty obvious that the illness isn’t anything that the average person experiences. And I guess I’ve been around long enough to finally understand that it doesn’t matter what the hell the issue is: if people, even people who are mostly decent, can’t understand something, it makes them uncomfortable. And since Peeta’s the only living hijacking victim, well, he elicits a hell of a lot of discomfort.

When the time came to elect a mayor, both he and Katniss’ names came up, but they were shot down pretty quickly. The fact was, the girl would never in a million years take the job, and the kid just plain wouldn’t be able to handle it. I don’t say things like this a lot, but it was a damn shame, because if anyone was ever a born diplomat, it was him. There’s a lot he could have done to make things here in the district run smooth that Thom, great as he has been, really struggled with. But it’s just not a possibility now.

And at this point, the girl’s starting to realize that there’s something wrong with her daddy, while all this time she’s been certain that the sun shone out of his ass.

Guess it’s my job to convince her it still does.

“Let’s go play in my room!” Lindy begins again, a little more gentle than before, but with the same urgent eagerness. It’s obvious by the way she’s lightly tugging at Hope’s arm that she’s trying to make up for her reaction in the only way she knows how.

I decide that I really like this little girl.

Hope looks down at the ground and kicks a rock. “I don’t think I want to play anymore, Haymitch,” she mutters softly.

Her friend is pretty stricken at this.

“But, it’ll be fun…” she tries, “Or, we could go see the new kittens!”

For a minute, Hope looks up at her and smiles a little, but it doesn’t last. Even the mention of kittens is not enough to cheer her up. She shakes her head and kicks another stone. After all the rocks she’s kicked today, I think her toes have to be bruised.

“Peanut, why don’t you go get your dad for me?” I ask, trying to buy myself a minute of time with the girl. Luckily, she takes the hint, and runs off across the fields. As soon as she’s out of earshot, I lean against the fence and turn to the girl.

“You know no one cares that he’s sick sometimes, right? Everybody loves your dad, no matter how he’s feeling.”

She kicks a rock so hard I can’t even see where it ends up. “Know that,” she mutters darkly.

“So then why are you upset about, firefly? Seems like your embarrassed of your old man. No reason for that and you know it.”

She looks up at me and her eyes are full of tears, “I’m not embarrassed of him! I heard Momma talkin’ to Julia, and she was mad and cryin’ cause they can’t make him better. And when people get sick, they die!”

“It’s not like that. He’s not sick in a way that gets worse.”

She shakes her head, muttering, “Don’t understand.”

“Okay, well, it’s like this. You know how your dad’s legs are different?”

Biting her lip, she nods, a small bit of hope in her eyes.

“One of his legs got hurt real bad, and he had to get a new one. But that doesn’t mean the rest of his leg’s gonna keep on getting worse until even more of it falls off. It happened, and it’s over. A done deal.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Yeah but what?”

“It’s not the same as getting _sick,_ ” she insists.

I pull her close to me and kneel down, so I can look in her eyes with my hands on her shoulders. “Your dad’s brain got hurt. Just like his leg. It got hurt real bad, and sometimes, just like when his leg’s too sore and he can’t run, his brain gets too tired and he gets confused. But that doesn’t mean it’s getting worse, or that he’s gonna die.”

Her nod is solemn as she takes it in, “How did his brain get hurt, Haymitch?”

I take a deep breath that rattles my ribcage. I want a drink so damn bad.

“What do you know about the Games, firefly?”

“They said in school that they were really bad, and lots of kids died. That you and Momma and Daddy broke them and then there was a war and now you’re heroes.”

Who in hell is telling these kids that I’m a damn hero? I need to sit down with Posy and tell her to rewrite her fucking curriculum.

“Well… during the war, that’s when your dad’s brain got hurt. They tried to use a drug to make him stop loving your mom, but it didn’t work. But it does mean that he forgets things sometimes, and sometimes he remembers things that never happened, and they scare him.”

“Why would people wanna make him stop loving Momma?”

“Cause they were trying to win the war. And they thought it would help. But they didn’t count on your dad being so stubborn. He fought, and got better. So if anything, when he’s sick like this, you should be proud of him.”

“Haymitch, I don’t _get_ it.”

“Honestly, firefly, I don’t either.” _And if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I didn’t protect him well as I could have. I don’t know, maybe I could have kept him from getting captured…_

At first, I don’t understand the look on her face. Then I realize that I’ve actually said the last part out loud.

Damn it all to hell.

“You let my Daddy get hurt?” she scowls, looking so much like her mother that I find myself squinting my damaged eye in an instinctual reaction. I thought it was strong before but the desire for a drink, a real soul-obliterating dose of white liquor, now roars through my veins. I actually have to take a deep breath to physically overcome the sensation.

“I didn’t tell him something that could have kept him safe,” I say honestly.

She breaks her shoulders free from my grasp. “Why?” she demands, putting her hands on her hips and stepping back to glare at me fiercely.

In the moment where I’m scrambling for the right way to respond, I glance down at the cord holding her brother. It’s slack. Slack because he’s somehow managed to wiggle himself free.

“Oh _shit_.”

And then suddenly the current conversation becomes significantly less important.

As soon as they find out Fletcher is missing, the Alberts kids spring into action. Even though their parents are nowhere to be found, the six older ones start in the center of the field nearest to the house and fan out in a series of circles, like a search party.

Obviously they’ve done this before.

The other kids, neighbors I can only assume, run back and forth, calling out his name, and panicking. It manages to make the situation worse. I’m not much more help myself. I mostly just stand, feeling my own blood pulse in my veins like it doesn’t actually belong there. Each moment that goes by while he’s gone, I feel the pressure increase, until it feels as though I’m about to boil out of my skin.

Hope won’t look at me, she just holds onto Lindy’s hand as they look for her brother.

All of this is just too much. For both of us.

* * *

They find the baby five minutes later, sitting under a horse. A goddamn horse.

“Oh, Hummingbird is real gentle,” Lindy says, reassuringly I guess, as she hands him over. I’m basically hyperventilating, but he grabs my face and yammers some kind of nonsense. There are words mixed in there, I guess, but I’m too busy trying to keep from screaming at him to notice.

I’m overcome with fury, but it doesn’t make any damn sense to be angry. The kid’s three, clearly not old enough to understand the concept of not wandering off. But I give him hell, grasping him under the arms so his feet dangle, glaring into his placid grey eyes with a sort of feral rage that can only be born of complete and utter terror.

When I’ve finally exhausted my full range of curses, ones that no three-year-old should actually hear, Lindy and Hope are staring at me, mouths agape. For once, the baby himself has been shocked into silence. He doesn’t look scared or sad, just appears to have a lot on his mind.

“You _mad_ ,” he finally announces, a lot more gleefully than is really appropriate for the situation.

The level and volume of the hoarse baby chuckling that follows this observation leads me to believe that this boy is unlikely to ever take anything seriously. But as the girls leave the barn and Lindy loudly whispers, “ _Haymitch sure knows a lot of swears_ ,” I can’t help but join him.

With the girls gone, and Fletcher once more secured to his rope, I decide to wander around the farm a bit. My heart is still pounding in my ears from the stress, and I need to calm myself down if I’m going to be able to tell Hope why it is exactly that I let her father get taken prisoner by a government that was, based on its track record, both able and likely to torture him in the most intimate and creative ways possible.

The kid forgave me for it in the months after the war, even before he started that awful therapy. He told me so in the hospital, half-suspended in this smelly goo that was supposed to make his new skin grow faster. Said it wasn’t my really my fault, that I _was_ trying to protect them, even though I had, in his words, “still not done anyone any favors,” by keeping things to myself. I think maybe he had picked up on the fact that I had been keeping a kind of vigil in his room. The girl’s mother had made the choice of who to sit with easy for me, since you couldn’t peel her from her daughter’s side. I don’t know, I guess seeing me there every day managed to convince him that getting his brains scrambled hadn’t been high on my list of priorities.

Once the kid could move, and the real therapy started, the shrink, Aurelius, I think his name was, said it would maybe help for him to have someone there with him through the process, especially since he was suffering from so much memory loss. So I came every day. There was always the opportunity to leave, if things got too personal, but the only time the kid asked me not to come were the days when Johanna showed up, and I got the distinct impression that was more for her than him.

I hated it, and grumbled about being there almost every day, but I wasn’t really fooling anyone. You couldn’t have kept me away.    

“Fish!” the baby grunts as we walk, pointing at a dandelion growing outside the barn door. Before I can stop him, he’s put the whole thing in his mouth, chewing happily.

“Junior, that ain’t a fish,” I sigh.

He ignores me and continues picking flowers and eating them. Might as well be flowers, instead of the steaming pile of horse manure sitting about fifteen feet to our right. Maybe I’m holding him to a high standard, since his sister might have been more linguistically capable than most kids, but at three _she_ was asking me where babies came from, while her brother can’t even seem to tell the difference between a plant and an animal.

I’m about to pull him away from what I guess is his early dinner, when Thom’s voice filters down from above me. Looking up, I see him leaning out from the hayloft. He’s been tossing down bales of the sweet-smelling stuff into a wagon and he’s just about to do it again.

“What brings ya ‘round, Haymitch?” he calls down. There are bits of hay sticking into the cloud of curly hair that surrounds his rapidly growing bald spot. He looks like a damn clown, and I’m not certain why Susie hasn’t made him get some kind of respectable haircut.

It’s at this point I realize that my internal dialog is sounding horrifyingly like the old geezers that sat around the Hob when I was a kid.

“Thought I’d see what you had in the cellar,” I lie.

There’s a grunt, and then another bale flies over my head and into the wagon before the ridiculous haircut reappears. “Didn’t realize Fletcher had a taste for ale,” he smirks. “Might as well start ‘em young, I s’pose.”

“Ale, dammit!” the baby calls out through a mouthful of flowers. I don’t know where he learned the word. Well, I suppose I do, since even though I try to restrain myself, he’s managed to pick it up anyway, and his parents and sister aren’t exactly what you’d call profane.

Thom guffaws before throwing down another bale. “Alcohol an’ cussin’. Everyone says the girl’s yer shadow, but looks like ya got a willin’ apprentice in that one there.”

Bored with the dandelions, or maybe just full, the baby’s taken to throwing rocks at the steel rain cistern, squealing excitedly whenever they make a resounding clang. As I watch him, it becomes apparent that he’s trying to hit a spot of red paint about halfway up, and with each throw he gets closer and closer to doing so, until he’s hitting the spot every time.

“Well, I’ll be damned. If that kid don’t have his momma’s aim…” Thom grunts appreciatively, throwing down the last bale, and then dropping to the ground after it.

Fletcher’s gurgling laugh is so damn delightful it sounds like a caricature of “adorable chubby toddler,” and reminds us all of an important fact.

“Well, he sure as hell doesn’t have her personality,” I snort. I’m finally starting to feel like I can breathe deeply again.

I’m too old for this shit. Even though in the past year, I’ve started walking several miles a day while the girl is at school, apparently the damage to my body after years of stress and drinking doesn’t just go away. The walk, or maybe the chat with Thom, seems to have done calmed me down though. My heartbeat feels steady again, and my breathing has finally eased into something more functional.

At least, until we hear the scream that make every hair that remains on my head stand on end.

It’s Hope.

She races around the corner, holding Lindy by the hand, urging her to run. They catch on to the side of the hay wagon and begin to climb it, when an older blonde boy, one that I don’t recognize, comes around the corner after them. He’s laughing maniacally, telling them how he’s going to tear them to shreds.

And then I can’t hear them anymore. I can’t hear anything, but Effie sobbing and Chaff softly cursing under his breath, while I grasp the side of the console and watch as a mutt rips open the kid’s leg. And then I can’t see that, just faces, anguished faces of children that I knew once, and couldn’t do a thing to save. They’re dying, dying every single one.

My vision goes dark.

Guess I am too.

* * *

The first thing I hear when I come to is Fletcher’s deep chuckle, and then I’m poked in the mouth with a slobbery finger. I smack my lips reflexively, trying to get away.

“He’s awake!” Hope’s voice shouts into my ear.

I open my eyes.

I’m lying on a large bed in a quiet room. Or at least, it would be quiet, but there are about a dozen kids in here, all trying to get a glimpse of the action. Hope is curled up at my side, head resting on my shoulder, clinging to me pretty damn tightly. Behind her is Susie, who’s gently tugging at the girl’s arms, trying to pull her away.

“Give him some space, Hope. He passed out, that’s all. He’ll be fine, I promise, but you need to give him room to breathe.”

To my left, the baby is rolling around on the other half of the bed. Sally, Thom’s oldest girl who’s now maybe fourteen, is trying to catch him, but he’s not making it easy.

“Aymtss fall down,” he grunts, and then climbs unto my stomach and starts to bounce on me, grinning at Sally as though he’s daring her to stop him. It’s is great for him, I suppose, since she’s grown into a lovely thing, but it’s not really agreeable for my intestines.

“Pick someone else’s stomach to flirt on, junior,” I groan, pushing him face first into the mattress.

He stays where he lands, cackling muffled by the blankets, his blond hair a fuzzy little cloud that’s catching the light filtering in the window. It’s sunset, and I’ve been out for I guess maybe a half hour. That’s a long time.  

I feel a tugging at my shirt, and I turn my head to look at Hope again. There are streaks on her dirty face where she’s been crying, and her eyes are red and swollen. She tries to ask a question, but before she can even form the words, she’s crying again.

“S’all right, firefly. I’m fine,” I tell her, embarrassed to be lying here surrounded by all of these damn nosy kids. In the back, two of them are pushing each other, trying to get a better look at old Haymitch. These are the same damn kids that are getting taught that I’m some kind of hero in school.

I have got to talk to Posy.

Susie claps her hands, “Alberts kids, go do your chores. Mellarks, stay here. Anyone else, you don’t even live here, so get home, unless you want me to put you to work mucking out the stable.”

The room empties in about ten seconds.

“You’re pretty good at that, Susie,” I croak.

Instead of laughing, she glares at me, “You hush up and relax. Gave us all a scare out there. Are you on any medication for these attacks?”

I flicker my eyes down to the girl and back up again, hoping Susie’ll get the message.

“Hope, can you go get Haymitch a glass of water? It’ll help him wake up quicker,” she says briskly.

When she’s gone, I sit up slowly. My head feels like lead, and my neck doesn’t seem quite able to support it.

“Never had an attack like this before,” I start gruffly. “Course, I never watched a bunch of kids play, ‘Let’s kill each other,’ when it wasn’t real, either.”

“You’re not the first,” she shrugs.

“What?”

She pulls open the closet and begins filling it with folded linens as she speaks. “I’ve had the boys sent home from school by one of the lunch monitors for playing tag ‘too violently.’ Anyone who lived through the Games, they’re all extra paranoid. They don’t understand that kids don’t know what it means to play games where you chase each other, or get a bit rough. I’m impressed you’ve managed to last this long, after what you’ve been through.”

“I don’t need your pity,” I mutter, watching the boy try to catch the pieces of dust floating in the light from the setting sun.

“Lucky for you I’m not giving any,” she snorts. “Just saying you’re in good company. The district, they all focus on Peeta, but he’s not the only one who has flashbacks. Thom can’t even go in a closet without breaking a sweat. You live up there in your little village, thinking you’re the only ones with problems from before the war? Get over yourself and let us help if we can.”

I know I should be thinking about the broader implications of what she’s said, but she just reminds me of my earlier conversation with the girl, and how she knows I managed to get her father turned crazy. I still don’t know how to make it better.

“You wanna help, hm?” I rotate myself on the bed and put my feet on the floor.

Susie laughs, “No. I was just talking to hear the sound of my own voice.”

I ignore her, “Earlier, your girl said you’ve got kittens..."

* * *

“You got her a _cat_?” Katniss growls, pacing back and forth on the porch.

It’s twilight. When we got to the top of the hill, we found the two of them sitting on their porch swing, hand in hand, leaning into each other and snoring lightly. The kid’s easel was set up with a nearly-finished painting. The two of them were covered in almost as much paint as the canvas was.

Course, the first thing Hope did was run up to them, holding her kitten and talking a mile a minute. Not that I really would have explained anyway, but it would have been nice to have the opportunity. While Katniss glared at me, the girl followed her father into the house, insisting that Pansy, the kitten, see her new home.

I stood there awkwardly, holding their son on a leash, until Katniss let loose.

“What’s wrong with a cat?” I say once she devolves into wordless snarling. “Girl loves animals, and you’ve had one before.”

She rushes over to me and I feel like I’m gonna get slapped, until at the last minute she ducks down and begins untying the rope around her son. Her normally quick fingers fumble with the knot, and I realize that she’s trembling.

They did have a cat before. Years ago. A mangy light orange one that the girl seemed to want to kill half the time.

Prim’s cat.

“What do you want me to say, sweetheart?” I sigh heavily. “That I’m sorry?”

“Sorry!” Fletcher shouts as she swings him over her shoulder with a lot more force than his weight demands.

“You should have _asked_ ,” she says coldly, before stomping up the porch stairs and slamming the door behind her.

I’ve settled into my house and made it three-quarters of the way through my fourth beer, when the kid knocks on the door. I know it’s him, because he always does this little half knock before coming right in.

At least he’s half polite.

“I’m sorry about the damn cat!” I shout, not even looking at him. “Now leave me the hell alone. I don’t want a lecture. No more pets, I get it.”

He looks confused, and more than a little tired. Standing with him is Hope. She’s dressed in a nightgown with hens on it, still clinging to the kitten that has fallen asleep in her arms.

“Hope and I were talking after her bath,” the kid begins a little awkwardly. “She said you told her that it was your fault I have my episodes.”

“Yeah?” I laugh bitterly. “What else did she say?” I can’t look at them. I won’t.

“She asked me if it was true.”

I finish the rest of the beer and open another.

“And?”

The sound of his uneven footsteps approaches me, and I feel his hand on my shoulder.

“I told her I didn’t know.”

He doesn’t sound angry, or even irritated that he’s had to have this discussion. I don’t know if he’s expecting me to insist on my innocence, but when I don’t say anything, he continues, “I asked her if she could ever remember a time where you haven’t been here to take care of us, though. And what did you say, nutmeg?”

“No,” she whispers into the kitten. After a moment, she gathers up her courage and asks, “But why did you not… not tell him that somethin’ bad was gonna happen?” If that’s all she really knows about this situation, it’s for the best. The truth’s too complicated to get into at this point.

I laugh sadly, and turn to look at her. Her hair is in braids, still damp from her bath, and her feet are in little moccasin slippers. She’s leaning against her dad like he’s the only thing keeping her from running away.

“Because, firefly, I was trying to keep him safe.” 

And this is where she stops looking like her mother, or even her father. Her narrowed eyes ease into softness as she considers what I’ve said. There’s a moment, a fragile shining bit of reality where, as she’s thinking, I feel like I’m witnessing the birth of an entirely new personality. Someone with her mom’s spunk and her dad’s kindness, but also this sort of patience and wisdom that seem to come out of nowhere.

“Is it why you’re always sad just a little?” she asks.

She’s six. Six-year-olds should not be able to make observations about your personal life that punch you right in the gut when you’re at your most vulnerable. I just stare at her for a minute, as she tilts her head a little, like she’s trying to look into my skull and see what else I’m hiding there.

“S’okay,” she reaches her hand out and touches my face, and it’s only then that I realize there a fucking tear running down my cheek. “You don’t gotta be sad, Haymitch. I think I forgive you.”

Damn this girl. 


	8. Eight

“Why are boys so _mean_?” she sobs to the girl, her voice echoing over the sound of everyone else talking. Really, I shouldn’t notice over the noise, but I do. I guess because I’m so used to listening for it. I try not to eavesdrop, even though my fingers clench around the bottle on my lap.

We’re at a picnic, one that I can’t ever really avoid because it sets up right outside my front door. A happy little “reunion” of sorts, that ends up happening every summer when the Hawthornes, or the Masons, or whatever the hell it is we’re supposed to call dollface, handsome and their bastards, show up for an extended vacation. The girl usually brings in some kind of big game, the kid bakes enough to feed a small army, and everyone else eats.

The first ten years or so, it was awkward. Even after the girl and her old… _cousin_ made some kind of peace, it was still pretty clear that the mere sight of each other caused them both some pretty intense pain. Just about everyone else tried to ignore the tension entirely by making certain they rarely crossed paths. But the kid insisted that everyone get together at least once a year. I dunno, I think it has something to do with the fact that the entire community he grew up with is gone or something, but he insisted either way.

Johanna didn’t give a damn about the social taboos that her little family’s presence broke, either generally or specifically. In fact, she seemed pretty thrilled at the number of awkward situations they all ended up in, never bothering to mince words in front of her kid.

Maybe that’s why Alder ended up so damn strange.  

After nearly a decade of her showing up in Victor’s Village with a wicked grin, a clamed-up baby-daddy, and the weirdest kid any of us had ever met, the walls between the girl and handsome started to fall down. Now I see them standing together pretty regularly when he visits, sharing a laugh or deep in conversation. Inevitably though, there’s always this moment when one of them _remembers_ and they ice up _._ I think there’s always gonna be at least a little bit of a fence there. Least until the man forgives himself.

Which I doubt is ever gonna completely happen.

I can’t hear what the girl is saying to her daughter, but peering at her out of the corner of my eye, I see her gnawing on her bottom lip with a pretty distressed look on her face. I’m not entirely certain, but if I had to guess, I think she kept enough to herself when she was little and grew up so damn fast, that she has no idea what it really feels like to be teased. Ignoring other kids was easy for her. She had bigger things to worry about, which is a pretty easy way to put a few mean kids into greater perspective. But her daughter doesn’t have that luxury. I suppose it’s a huge blessing in and of itself, but how on earth is an eight-year-old supposed to understand that?

Seeing both of them like this tears me up inside. I don’t know when this happened, when I started feeling like the bullshit role of being a “mentor” was something I actively sought out, but the urge to head over there and shower them both in unsolicited advice is something I’ve gotta actively resist. 

Cause the girl didn’t ask me. She asked her mom.

I have no intention of adding my two cents where they don’t belong.

“Haymitch, I’ve been speaking to you for the past five minutes, and you’ve not responded to a single thing I’ve said,” Effie huffs, reaching up and smacking my shoulder with the strap of her purse. “I don’t think you’re even _listening_.”

“Maybe if you said something that was worth listening to,” I mutter, throwing back the bottle. I’ve reached the end of it, and the thought stresses me out. Times like this, I want a lot more drinks than just the one. All these people. I don’t know what to do with them when I’m sober. I’d rather sit out back and throw food at the geese.

The glare Effie throws could freeze molten rock, but there’s a reason that the Girl on Fire and I always understood each other so well. I’m not easily chilled. Not to mention the fact that I learned to ignore Effie’s ire years ago. It hardly phases me, especially when her tactic is to ignore me until I say something contrite, like she’s doing now. Instead of giving her what she wants, I cross the yard to an old bucket that’s been filled with ice and bottles of Thom’s newest brew. I manage to snag the last one. When I come back to my seat, Effie is still fuming, but I know she’s about to crack.

“Little kids are mean sometimes,” she finally says, and I know I’ve won. She knew what was upsetting me this whole time and it gnawed at her. She’s more perceptive than she lets on, even if she tries to ignore it. All those years of leading children to the slaughter, I suppose.

“It’s just what happens. You need to get over it,” she continues with the fatalistic attitude that kept us both sane for so many years. “Hope will eventually. And it certainly doesn’t seem to be upsetting Katniss and Peeta.”

Going by the look of confusion and pain in the girl’s eyes, I’d tend to argue, but there’s just no point. No matter how she’s grown or changed, Effie’s still pretty oblivious sometimes. It’s a forced kind of oblivion, one she uses to shield herself from the cruel realities of life, but it’s there all the same. Not to mention the fact that she understands the girl a lot less than I do. Conveniently though, the kid picks this moment to join the conversation with his wife and daughter. Although I can’t hear what he’s saying, the manic anger on his face is obvious, even to Effie.

“Okay, so maybe it is upsetting him, just a tiny bit. But he’s just so...” she fumbles around for the correct word, “ _protective_.”

I guess it’s a better choice than crazy. And he is, really. Never in a million years would I have imagined the girl to be the more easy-going parent of the two but, with a few exceptions, she is.

Looking across the yard I see her grab him by his shirt and yank him away from their daughter, who is still sniffling and looking confused. From where I’m sitting, I can see her pull him around behind the shed and watch as she shakes him hard, which calms him down for a moment. Then they start to argue.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say I enjoy it when they fight. Obviously there’s the general pleasure at seeing them get all worked up over things that are ridiculous, but it’s more than that. It’s so… normal. What people who have to deal with each other’s bullshit on a regular basis end up doing. And I suppose I’m just a little bit invested in seeing them live something that resembles a normal life.

“Oh my…” Effie begins.

“Trust me, you don’t want to watch them go at it for much longer,” I snort, turning my chair away.

“What are you talking about? Why?”

“Because in my painful experience as their neighbor, one type of going at it always leads to another. I don’t know. It might have something to do with his episodes, but I’ve never asked.”

She blinks for a moment before it sinks in. “Oh. _Ohhhhhhhh_. Well. That’s… hardly… _appropriate_. Especially outdoors. Really, they should consider the hygiene factor.”

“Well, they don’t tend to fuck against the shed when the yard’s full of people, but they’re lucky they don’t have ten kids, is all I’m saying,” I tell her as I stand up.

Effie makes no move to join me. She’s been lounging on a blanket the whole afternoon, and she’s not about to get up. “Where are you going?” she squints up at me.

“Gotta see about my girl,” I mutter.

As soon as I take a step, Fletcher appears out of nowhere and directly underfoot. I trip over him and end up sprawled on the ground. Effie titters.

“Look!” he thrusts something in my face so close to my eyes that I can’t even tell what it is. I sit up, and he steps back a little, letting the object come into better focus. I almost wish I hadn’t.

“Junior, get that frog out of my face.”

He makes no effort to, waving it around instead, “It’s the biggest! I found it!” I feel a drops of water fleck against my shirt and arms.

“Damnit kid, the thing is pissing on me.”

The little demon chuckles maniacally, and I can hear Effie chastising me for cursing in front of a five-year-old somewhere in the background.

“Go show Effie,” I mutter as I stand up. “She loves frogs.”

As I round the corner of the house, I hear a high-pitched squeal, and can’t help but chuckle myself.

I find the girl sitting on her own porch, furiously drawing something on a piece of paper and stroking her cat with the other hand. Her nose is scrunched up, and she sniffles every few seconds.

“What’s eatin’ ya, firefly?” I ask, as she moves her body so I can’t see what she’s drawing. The cat, disturbed by the movement, jumps down and creeps away.

“I hate Jasper Hawthorne,” she scowls, pressing down even harder on the paper.

“What’d he do this time?” I ask, settling down next to her. This isn’t the first time the brat’s been an issue. When they were toddlers, he used to get in her face a lot, and she always ended up pulling his hair. Once I found her in the yard crying because he had spent the afternoon up in a tree throwing nuts at her while she tried to convince him to put a baby bird back in its nest. Last year, he tied all of the geese together. When she found what remained of her little geese family, squawking and pecking at each other in an effort to get free, she gave the kid a black eye.

Much as I want to, I honestly don’t think the kid means to hurt her, or anyone. The few times I’ve seen him get picked on, he always laughs, almost like he enjoys the attention more than he cares about what’s being said. He begs his sister to climb the side of the house and throw things at him so he can dodge them. When she agrees, and he inevitably gets hit, he’s almost excited about it. It’s like his sense of humor is on backwards and his sensitivity to pain, emotional or physical, just doesn’t exist at all.

Basically a weird kid in general. Takes after his mom, really. But Hope’s too young to understand their kind of sense of humor, and I don’t think Jasper quite realizes what a little shit he is just yet. 

I’d be happy to demonstrate.

For a minute, the girl doesn’t say anything, just focuses on her drawing, biting down on her bottom lip. Her cheeks have tear trails through the light dusting of dirt that’s always on her cheeks.

I don’t say anything either. Not really sure if I should even be here.

“He called me a mean name.”

“Well, he’s an idiot. There’s not a mean name in the world that applies to you.”

“He called me ‘ _moonbaby_ ,’” she spits out the word, and I shake my head, looking confused. It’s definitely pretty dumb, but I’m not certain why it’s so upsetting.

She sighs, as though it’s completely obvious, “You know, cause my head is round and really white? Like the moon. He said maybe that’s where I came from.”

Before I can respond, she continues, throwing her drawing to the ground, “Why can’t I look like everybody else?”

_That little shit._

“Nobody looks like anybody else, firefly,” I say, and then try to joke. “Aren’t you supposed to be an artist? You should be picking up on things like that.”

“But he’s right. I don’t look like anyone, even Fletcher. I want to look like my _mom_.”

I don’t know how I’m even supposed to address this. She doesn’t understand what it was like. That her pale skin screams privilege and the tiny slice of wealth and power that any of us could have before. That other than her hair, she looks Merchant. She has her paternal grandma’s bone structure, her youngest uncle’s nose, and her aunt’s face shape. The fact that she doesn’t look like anyone else is because the rest of them are all _dead_.

But I can read the story of her parents in every move she makes, in every word she says. When she cries she looks like the girl and when she lies she looks like the kid. She has her scowl and his laugh. She’s as friendly as the kid was at his best, but with an edge of loveable awkwardness that comes from growing up watching the girl interact with everyone around her.

She’s not a damn outcast. There is not a person who belongs in this district more. But I don’t think that kid even meant that. He lives in Two. He doesn’t understand about Seam and Merchant and all that tension any more than she does. He’s just being a mean kid, picking something out to pick on.

Unfortunately, I guess he picked something that has bugged the girl for a while.

“She matches everybody,” she continues forlornly. “And she’s so pretty. Nobody calls _her_ moonbaby.” I guess every little kid thinks her mom is pretty as hell, but knowing how average the girl is in her own estimation would make her daughter’s statement kinda funny to hear, if it weren’t for the context.

 “Firefly, if you’re anything, it’s a moonbeam. You give Jasper Hawthorne a few years and he’s going to regret calling you something other than that.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret saying them. I hope when that kid is older, he leaves her the hell alone.

“You don’t know what it’s like!” she protests. “You’re _old_.”

I snort, “You think old people don’t get teased? I still get called “smelly drunk,” on a regular basis. And I’m a hell of a lot older than eight.”

She looks like she’s going to cry again. Clearly this isn’t the right tactic.  

“I’m just saying that the opinion of anyone who says mean things do you doesn’t matter,” I clear my throat. “Do you even _want_ to be friends with that boy?”

“No,” she gulps.

“And why not?”

“Because he says mean things. And he plays too hard. And he chases me around even when I tell him to stop. And he makes Dad mad.”

“So then why do you care what he says? He sounds like an idiot to me.”

At first, she doesn’t have a response. She picks up her drawing and holds it close to her chest and looks at her knees.

Then, she finally says, “Cause maybe that’s what they think.”

“Who’s they?” I ask leadingly, feeling like a damn fool but following through anyway.

“All the other kids. Maybe… maybe they _all_ think that I look funny, but Jasper’s the only one brave enough to say.”

“Do you really think your friends think that?” I hope when she grows up she doesn’t think back on ol’ Haymitch and his leading questions with the sort of disgust I feel asking them.

“Maybe they think it in _secret_ , but wanna have someone to play with so they don’t have to play by themselves.”

Well. Maybe they do. I suppose it’s possible.

It’s pretty much the heart of the issue. There’s no way to prove to her that people are essentially good, that they won’t hurt her or use her or anything else. And I don’t know why I even care. How the hell did I get from waking up in a cold sweat every night worrying she was going to get reaped, to sitting on a porch feeling like hell just because she’s worried that somebody thinks she looks weird?

The funny thing is, it actually does matter to me. Her feelings, ridiculous as they might seem in perspective to the life-and-death issues I had to deal with all of my life, aren’t made into nothing just cause once upon a time people died. The thought of her crying about this is enough to keep me up at night.

I’d be up half the time anyway, since I’m still scared as hell that she’s gonna get reaped, despite ample evidence to the contrary.

“Do you think that?” is all I can manage to say.

Her bottom lip trembles as she gasps out, “Yes! I do look funny!”

“First off, no you don’t and I’m not gonna listen to you say that again. Secondly, that’s not what I was asking. Do you think your _friends_ are funny-looking?”

“Well… no… but they don’t look like me.”

“So, they all look the same, then?” With the influx of people from Thirteen and other districts, it’s not even like “Seam” really exists anymore the way it did before. Most kids are darker than she is, and a lot of them still have dark hair, but all in all, it varies pretty widely.

“No. They have different color hair and stuff, but I’m the palest with the roundest head.”

“Are you deciding how much you like them by the way they look? By their skin color, or head shape?”

“No!” she shakes her head, upset that I would even suggest such a thing.

“So you never even think about it when you think about them?”

“No!”

“Then what makes you think they’re thinking it about you.”

“Well… Jasper did…” she answers slowly.

“Is Jasper your friend?”

“No,” her braids smack against the side of her head, she shakes it so hard.

“Well then, firefly, I guess I’m just missing out on your logic here.”

“It just makes me feel _sad_!” she bursts into tears.

And then I’m hugging her, even though I’m not certain how you’re supposed to hug a kid once she’s over the age of five. She’s crying and I have no damn idea how she could feel worried about this, because she’s adorable now and is pretty damn likely to be beautiful later. But I’m old and have been around her whole life, and I know that in her mind whatever I say doesn’t count at all right now.

“It’s okay to be sad,” I say. I don’t really know what else I can tell her. I hope she doesn’t grow up and hate me for this.

She pulls back and looks at me with wide teary eyes, “Is it really okay? My mom said… she said that I should just ignore him and I shouldn’t be upset.”

“That’s all true. But if you’re sad, you’re sad. No point in feeling bad for feeling bad.”

“Okay,” is all she says, but she holds on tight and doesn’t let go. I just hold her while she cries into my shirt. Not much else I can do.

“Hope?” a young girl’s voice calls from the backyard. I’m not sure who it is, there’s too many damn kids for me to remember what their voices sound like. “Where are you?”

“I’m here!” her voice breaks as she calls. She coughs loudly, trying to hide it.

The voice grows louder as whoever it is that’s speaking begins to come around the house, “We’re gonna play hide-and-seek in the Meadow? Do you wanna come?”

Just like that, the waterworks stop.

“Be right there!” she yells, pretty much right in my ear.

She scrambles down the stairs and runs out back, leaving me sitting on the stoop with nothing but the picture she left behind. I pick it up, and, once I see what it is, begin laughing so hard I bring on a coughing fit. When it finally subsides, I stand up, folding up the drawing and putting it in my pocket.

I have got to show this to the kid.

I find him in the kitchen pretty viciously attacking a ball of dough. There’s a line of sweat on his forehead. It’s obvious that seeing Hope upset managed to put him on edge, so he’s trying to calm himself down. Next to him is Nick, who looks like someone just took his heart out and stomped on it. Which turns out isn’t too far from what happened.

“I just… don’t know, Peeta,” he says, anguished. Now that he’s basically an adult, he’s handsome enough. Just like his dad, I suppose, but he looks like a complete imbecile with the droopy, lovelorn look that he’s wearing right now. I don’t wanna hear whatever he’s going on about. It’s not the kind of thing I need, anguish from a twenty-year-old kid. I had too real pain of my own at his age for what he has to say to sound anything other than ridiculous.

Strange, that this didn’t seem to be an issue ten minutes ago when I was listening to the girl cry over being teased.

But the kid manages to listen well enough, despite his frenetic kneading. Sitting at the table, Alder looks to be working out a complicated set of equations or something. He doesn’t seem to have anything to say, which shouldn’t surprise me.

“She just… she doesn’t understand! I love her,” Nick cries out.

“Love who?” I ask, pretty surprised things are going in this direction. He’s a good-looking rich kid with a famous dad. Not like it’s hard to get female attention that way.

“My Aunt Posy,” Alder says dismissively.

I turn to stare at Nick, who’s leaning against the counter, the very picture of misery.

“Maybe you missed this somewhere, but she’s _seven years older than you_.” A better man then me might be able to keep his mouth shut, but I sure as hell can’t resist. It takes quite a lot to shock me at this point, but Finnick Odair’s son being in love with Gale Hawthorne’s sister has to be one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard. _She changed his diapers as a child._

I tell him as much and he blushes a shade of red that would rival Peeta himself.

“Haymitch, back off,” the kid says, trying to keep from chuckling as he tosses the dough into a bowl and sprinkles it with something. I probably should. Nick’s been through enough as a kid, growing up without a dad. Without a very, very famous war hero dad. Can’t imagine that was easy, seeing as they erected a statue of the guy in Four, where Nick lives.

So I shut up and pull a beer out of the fridge. Then I lean against the counter, because even if I’m quiet, this is still going to be damn interesting.

“If you’re going to stand there,” Peeta says, “make yourself useful.”

“I don’t know anything about baking, kid. At all.”

“Here. Take this,” he shoves a bowl in my hands. “It’s butter and flour. Use the fork and mix it together. Not completely together, just until it’s flakey for the pie crust.”

I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, but I figure I might as well give it a go. It’s something to do with my hands, anyway.

Nick’s just opened up his mouth again, about to go on about his broken heart, when the door opens and Rory strides in.

“Ran out of beers out there,” he mutters, in response to everyone staring at him.

Screw being quiet.

“Perfect timing, kid! You’ve stumbled into the kitchen of emotions!” I hold up my beer in salute, while I try to figure out how the hell to turn flour and butter into flakes.

Nick looks terrified, shaking his head rapidly and trying to get me to shut up.

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Rory asks.

“Well, it turns out that little Mister Odair here is in love with your sister.” In the background, Nick groans loudly. I hear Peeta coughing back another laugh.

Rory shrugs and then grunts out, “Yeah? Why not?”

“You don’t… you don’t care about this, Rory?”

“Nope. She’s pretty enough, I guess,” he says, reaching into the refrigerator.

“She _is_ a bit older, Nick…” the kid starts cautiously as he cracks an egg with one hand.

“So?” Rory interrupts bluntly. “I reckon folks might as well get peace where they can find it.”

And that shuts us up. Nothing like the guy who’s been mourning his dead girlfriend for twenty-three years to kill the mood in the room.

“Look, I’d love to help,” Peeta turns to Nick, “but I’m not really certain if I understand what exactly happened.”

Nick tries to retell the story, but all that comes out is a confused sputter, so Alder, leaning his chin against his hands, begins to speak cheerily from the table.

“A few weeks ago, I discovered that Posy and Lenny Cartwright had ended their romantic liaison. Apparently, he wanted to relocate to the Capitol, and she was disinterested in such a venture. She has hopes of a family and children and other such things, while he found himself more interested in city life and whatever such adventures that had to offer. So they are, as they say, no more.”

“Really? Haven’t they been together for about five years?” Peeta muses, throwing more ingredients into a different bowl.

“Yeah, round about,” Rory mutters into his beer.

“Either way, once he discovered this information, Nick believed that his long-suffering crush might possibly blossom into something a bit more…” he pauses a moment to write something down, “…requited.”

“And?” I cough back a laugh, seeing where this is going. Nick looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

“He took it upon himself to compose a letter. It was very long and detailed and, according to the draft that I discovered, rather… _soppy_. He mailed it to her, hoping she would be waiting for him here at the train station when he and his mother arrived. His current despair is based on the fact that right now she has yet to even look at him.”

“You didn’t,” Peeta says blankly.

“He did,” Alder confirms, not looking up from his math.

“Holy shit, kid.”

“Look! I don’t have a dad, okay!” Nick bursts out. “I get it, he was incredibly charming and everybody was in love with him, but I don’t know how to talk to women! Posy’s the only one I can talk to! With her, it’s just… so easy. And she has this smile that, I mean, I noticed it as soon as I even started noticing that girls had smiles–”

“We were nine,” Alder specifies. “It was tedious then and it’s nearly unbearable now.”

“Thanks,” Nick says, ignoring the jab completely. “And she’s always been so kind, and just… altogether loving. And, even Lenny was five years older than her! There’s not anyone around here her age. They pretty much all died in the bombing. Is it so crazy to think that she might… possibly… want…”

It’s at this point that we all simultaneously realize what Nick realized only seconds before.

Tall, Dark and Absent himself has entered the room, followed by Thom, who’s holding back a grin.

“What’s going on in here?” Gale asks, though it’s pretty obvious to me at least that he’s heard enough.

“Oh nothing!” Nick says with a nervous laugh. “Just talking! Just talking and baking!” He pulls the bowl full of dough from the counter, pulls the fork from me, and starts mixing vigorously.

“Don’t touch that!” Peeta snaps, “It needs to rise!”

“So we’re just… _baking_?” Gale asks, and for a moment, Nick sighs in relief.

Then ol’ Handsome smiles the sort of smile that we rarely see. The one that girls at the Hob went crazy over. Even Ripper would pause, liquor bottle still in her hand, when he smiled like that, and it took several minutes to get her to pay attention to much of anything afterwards.

“Baking and talking about how you’re in love with my sister?”

Nick’s mouth just hangs open.

“Isn’t she a little old for you?” Gale adds, pretty casually, I think, considering he basically raised the girl.

The runt looks up from his math, a rare sort of fire in his eyes. “Dad, age really is irrelevant at this point in their lives, especially in their capacity to procreate and relate to each other.”

“Son, I don’t want to think about my sister procreating.”

Alder drops his pencil and stands up, crossing the room as he speaks. “I’m simply saying that, other than the obviously required mutual interest, the only thing inhibiting them from pursuing a relationship is social convention.”

“Well, sometimes convention has a use,” Gale responds in something pretty close to a snarl. The two of them are standing nose to nose. They’re the exact same height, although Alder still just looks like a bizarre, male version of Johanna. It works well enough for him, I suppose.

“I’ve never seen one,” he says directly.

“Gale, here,” Peeta slides a bowl across the counter in an effort to distract him. “Whip this cream.”

He picks up the bowl and whisk and begins flicking his wrist in what pretty shockingly appears to be a practiced motion. I look down at the butter and flour in front of me, which has turned into a solid, clearly non-flakey mass, and then pull the fork out of the mess of dough that Nick may or may not have destroyed.

“So what?” Gale says dismissively as he works. “You’ve got a little crush on my sister? No big deal. She’s pretty. When I went to see her at her teachers’ college, just about half the kids there had a crush on her. They got over it. So will you.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Hawthorne, but it feels like more than a crush to me,” Nick answers.

You’ve got to admire the kid’s balls. I don’t know many people in the country who are willing to stand up to Senator Gale Hawthorne.

But instead of responding in anger, the man just laughs. “One that you’ve been harboring for eleven years without bringing up?”

Peeta throws down his wooden spoon, “Gale, don’t belittle his feelings.”

“I’m just saying, if he feels something for the girl, he should have said so a long time ago.”

“When? Before she started seeing Lenny? Five years ago? When he was _fifteen_?”

Gale doesn’t really know what to say at this, but he gives Peeta a cold, ancient sort of look..

“I’m just saying that maybe long-harbored childhood crushes aren’t always what they’re made out to be,” he finally clarifies.

Suddenly everyone in the room feels pretty strongly that we’d rather be somewhere else. “You’re not talking about Nick, are you? I thought we were over this.”

“We are over it. That doesn’t make it less true.” They lean against the counter, glaring at each other. Taking a second to look at them proves how ridiculous the situation actually is. Gale’s hair is shot with grey, and Peeta’s hairline has started its slow, steady decline. Considering the way his father looked at this age, I’m surprised it’s lasted this long. And they’re arguing. In the kitchen. About girls. Gale continues to furiously whip the cream, while the kid has pulled the ball of dough from the bowl and is punching it so hard the counter rattles.

“Well… since it’s clear that we’re not even talking about what I was talking about anymore…” Nick begins, but trails off when both of them glare at him.

“Gale, calm the hell down and have a beer,” Rory mutters with frustration, heavily placing a bottle in front of his brother.

For a minute, no one says anything at all. The only sound anyone can hear is the scratching of Alder’s pencil against the paper.

Then Gale laughs, cracks the bottle open against the counter, and downs the whole thing.

After about three more, the atmosphere in the kitchen has cooled considerably. The two of them have stopped arguing and taken to flicking small bits of dough at targets that Thom points out around the room. Alder is trying to explain his math to his uncle, who looks like he’d rather be having his fingernails removed. Nick just stares forlornly out the window towards Hazelle’s house.

“Where’s everyone else?” Thom asks, then burps loudly and chuckles to himself. Despite being the person who brewed the beer, he looks the least able to handle it.

“Uh, jus’ doin’ women stuff,” Rory murmurs. He talks a lot more when he’s had something to drink. That’s not to say he talks a lot. But more.

“Johanna’d _never_ do ‘women stuff,’” Gale remarks.

“Oh, I think she must do at least a little bit of ‘women stuff,’ considering you have three kids,” I laugh.

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh come on, they’re probably talking about gardening or something,” Nick says, pulling himself away from the back window and collapsing dejectedly into a chair.

The loud roar we hear seems to be the exact opposite of gardening, and draws us all to the window.

The rest of the women appear to be in hiding, but Katniss is standing, bow over her shoulder, right next to Johanna, who is leaning against a tree, laughing hysterically, and holding onto the neck of a bottle of wine. Annie sits at their feet, glass of wine sitting on her thigh as she weaves a long chain of flowers. It’s tame enough I suppose.

Or it would be, if Effie wasn’t standing nearby, holding an axe awkwardly, pretty obviously preparing to hurl it against the wall of the shed.

Johanna begins to chant her encouragement.

This can’t be good.

“Wow,” Peeta breathes after the moment we all take to absorb the sight of the axe quivering in the side of the building. “You know, I never would have expected Effie to have that kind of an arm on her.”

“You’d be surprised, kid,” I say and everyone makes a face.

“Well… I hope you didn’t like that shed,” Gale sighs. “Because it looks like Johanna is going to chop it down.”

“She do that a lot?” Rory grunts over the loud whoops and splintering sounds coming from outside.

“When she gets in a certain type of mood, yeah.”

Thom starts it, chuckling softly, and then the kid joins in. A few seconds later, everyone in the kitchen is laughing uproariously, even Alder, who keeps exchanging looks with his dad, as though they’re remembering something very specific.

As the laughing finally dies down, the door slams open and Vick stumbles in.

“Did I just miss a ‘guys moment?’” he gasps, straightening his glasses. When no one answers, he huffs, “Of _course_ I missed it! I’m _always_ missing these bonding experiences! Isn’t it possible someone could send for me or something next time? Really, this is not a difficult request, asking to be included for once.”

About an hour later, the kid has somehow managed to turn my awful attempt at flour and butter into a pie crust, filled it with cherries, and covered it in the cream that handsome whipped up all by himself.

The shed is a collapsed heap of wood on the ground, and the girl is steadily feeding pieces of it to the fire. When the kid looks at her, eyebrow raised, she just shrugs and says that it looked about ready to fall down for a while now.

Annie is tipsy and Johanna is wasted, and they’re leaning against each other exchanging the most ridiculous stories about Finnick I’ve ever heard. Nick blushes deeply on his father’s behalf, and probably also because Posy’s appeared out of nowhere, looking completely pissed at the marshmallow she’s roasting over the fire. And since the marshmallow didn’t do a damn thing, it’s clear she’s mad at something else.

Fletcher and the other little kids are having some kind of a mud fight that Hazelle and Ruth Everdeen watch with bemused interest, Effie, with something like horror. I finish my beer, and lean back in a chair, finally tipsy enough to relax.

I’m half asleep when I hear it, a hiccoughing noise, sniffling, and the sound of a boy talking a mile minute. It’s hard to make out the words, or who it is exactly, but it sounds like the voice is telling some kind of crazy story about falling off a mountain.

I hear the girl cry out and the kid is up before my eyes are even open, rushing across the yard and kneeling next to his daughter, who is leaning against none other than Jasper Hawthorne for support.

“What happened?” he cries, gently grasping her knee, which is covered in blood.

Jasper lets go and runs away. Almost immediately, he joins Fletcher and the other toddlers in their mud fight. I turn back

Hope hiccoughs out the words, “I-I-I fell.”

“How did you fall?” he asks cautiously, but I know damn well he wants to ask if the kid pushed her.

“I-I-I t-tripped over a rock while we were p-p-playing,” she gasps out through her tears. “J-J-Jasper brought me h-h-home s-s-so no one else s-s-saw me c-c-crying.”

“He did?” the kid stares dumbly.

She nods.

“Alright, nutmeg, let’s have your grandma take a look at that leg.”

A few hours later, I find myself sitting by the fire with the kid and the girl. Everyone else has long gone to sleep, but for some reason they stayed even after the kids were put to bed. They think I’m asleep, and so they’re talking freely, and the main topic of their conversation is still Jasper Hawthorne.

“I don’t get it,” the kid says for what has to be the fiftieth time. “I mean, he’s one minute the meanest kid alive, and then the next, he’s walking her home and telling her _stories_.”

The girl laughs quietly, “I think he likes her.”

“What are you talking about? Almost every time they see each other, he makes her cry!”

“He’s _ten,_ Peeta,” she laughs even more. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Well, I wasn’t like that when I was ten,” he mutters.

“No one was like you when they were ten,” she deadpans. He grumbles inaudibly, and then I can hear them kiss.

“For god’s sake, can’t a man get some sleep without you two pawing at each other?” I grouse.

“Shut up, Haymitch,” the girl spits angrily.

I figure it’s about time to go anyway, so put my hands on my thighs and make to stand up. It’s then that I feel the scrap of paper in my pocket, and remember what it was that I meant to tell the kid earlier.

“By the way, boy,” I toss it at him. “I think your wife’s right about that kid. You might want to start planning.”

As I make my way into my house, I hear the girl say, “Wait… did she draw you _baking_ Jasper into a pie?”


	9. Ten

“Why don’t you marry Effie?” she asks me, her head covered with the putrid, septic flesh that comes with extreme burns. Her eyes are empty sockets. An inky darkness pours out of her mouth. It twists around my feet and pulls me down down down into a fucking black hole.

I know they’re here. I can feel them, even though I can’t see. They whisper and giggle and sob. The air is thick with blood and I can smell it. My arms and legs are slick with it. Over everything, I hear the gurgling sobs that Maysilee made as she died. I know the sound by heart, cause it’s what I hear whenever the world falls quiet.

Then the bottom drops out of wherever I am, leaving me to fall and fall into a cold room in the Capitol. A prison cell, nondescript, really, but it’s one that I’ll never fucking forget. In the corner is a sodden heap of what might be a woman, dead eyes staring back at me from her collapsed position. The floors are smeared with blood and filth. There are diagonal gouges in the walls in the area where the most blood has pooled.

The fingernails on her trembling hands are ripped to shreds.

“Effie?” I gulp out, because that’s who it is.

She looks up at me, but instead of Effie, I see _her_.

Tansy.

Her mouth opens like she’s gonna scream, but the air is full of the sound of flapping wings, as those goddamn birds pour out of her lips and fill the room. They land on my skin, pecking at my eyes and going for my throat. I brush them away, but they won’t go. I can’t escape. They’re everywhere. I can’t breathe.

Maysilee is dying again, and somewhere Effie is screaming but all I can see are those terrified grey eyes, filling with flame.

 

I wake with a start, slamming my head into the floor, making my hangover a million times worse. I’ve been sleeping here in the living room in the company of a bottle of white liquor for the past few days. Ever since the girl asked about Effie.

She tried to do it delicately, I guess. But ten-year-olds aren’t too knowledgeable on the most artful way to find out why someone’s been exclusively bedding a woman for decades without putting a ring on her finger.

Not that the girl knows the practical specifics.

It’s all thanks to Nick and Posy, who are having some kind of hybrid sailor toasting at the end of the month. Hope’s never really been the sort of kid to get all worked up over weddings, but when I came over to the house for dinner at the beginning of the week, she had been in the middle of grilling her mom about all the different couples they knew, how they met, and when they got married. Out of curiosity, maybe, I don’t know. For whatever reason her mind had been on the subject, though: it was obvious as soon she saw me that the cogs started turning in her head.

We were halfway through dinner by the time she worked up the courage to ask, tugging on one of her braids nervously and using her fork to draw little pictures in her mashed potatoes.

“H-Haymitch?” she began.

“Yeah?” I asked through a mouthful of venison.

She looked down at her food and then up at me again before dropping the bomb.

Even though I knew what was coming, I started to choke when the words were halfway out of her mouth.

As her mom whacked my back hard enough to tell me she was enjoying it, I could hear Fletcher say, “’Cause Haymitch is _smart_. He knows girls are dumb.”

Though he looks like a darker, grey-eyed version of his father, this kid could not be less like him in terms of his treatment of the fairer sex. In the eyes of Fletcher Mellark, girls are a damn pestilence on the face of the earth, only allowed to stick around because people like his mother happen to be a part of their number. He sure as hell wasn’t falling in love with anyone when he was five. He was the kid who acted like girls didn’t even exist.

While I gulped down a whole glass of water, I watched the two of them bicker.

“Girls are _not_ dumb, Fletcher. We are the same as boys. Look at Mom! She can go into the woods and get food. Dad can’t even do that.”

Peeta made a pathetic noise in protest, sparking a smirk from his wife.

“I’m too peaceful to slay innocent creatures,” he said with that lofty superiority that drives the both of us nuts. “I create, I don’t destroy.”

“Mom says you’re loud,” Fletcher said through a mouthful of dandelion salad.

The kid shook his head, “That’s where you’ve been misinformed. I’m loud on _purpose_. Don’t want to make animals feel like I’m just letting them win.”

Katniss rolled her eyes.

“Hunting doesn’t make you good at being quiet, _anyway,_ Fletcher,” the girl huffed. “I’m the quietest one, Mom even said, and I don’t ever kill _anything_.”

“Yeah,” Fletcher snorted, “’cause flowers don’t die ever.”

“I use them to make animals get well!” Hope hissed. “Grandma showed me how!”

“Alright you two, knock it off,” the girl said, adding. “Hope, you need to eat your venison.”

There was a heavy pause, and the kid looked at her imploringly, as though something bad was about to happen.

“No,” Hope answered, trying to be firm, but the little quaver in her voice telling all of us just how damn nervous she was.

Katniss slowly laid down her fork. “Excuse me?” she asked, tipping her head to the side looking halfway pissed.

This had been a long time coming. My living room had already been stuffed with cages full of squirrels, foxes, and even a few mice that the girl’d been trying, and I guess succeeding, really, to nurse back to health. Her cat had had kittens a few months back, but she hadn’t let her parents give any of them away without extensively interviewing anyone who wanted to take them, to make certain they’d be respectable pet owners, I guess. Then, she had insisted her grandma come home and perform some kind of surgery on them all to make certain we didn’t end up with more unwanted kittens in the district.

“I’m a vegetarian now,” she said, looking both terrified and proud of herself all at once. “I don’t eat anything that has a face.”

Fletcher reached over as she was talking and drew a smile in her mashed potatoes with his fork.

“Guess you can’t eat those now,” he snickered.

Hope ignored him, too worried about her mom’s reaction to be bothered to fight with her brother.

“You’re telling me, you’re not going to eat good food, healthy food, that I spent the day in the woods trying to bring for you, just because it comes from an animal?” Katniss asked darkly. The kid reached across the table and took her hand, but I knew there was only one way to recover the situation.

“Weren’t you asking me a question, firefly?” I changed the subject, earning me a look of annoyance from the girl, surprise from the kid, and thankful relief from their daughter.

“Oh! Um, I…” she began awkwardly. My earlier reaction made it pretty damn obvious that I wasn’t eager to answer her, and she had definitely reached the age to pick up on it. “I was just wondering, you know, if you and Effie are gonna get married.”

“Not a chance in hell,” I said, popping another piece of venison into my mouth and feeling pretty desperate for a drink. The kid made a sound about my choice of language, but he learned awhile back that if he asked me to stop, I’d just leave.

“Why not?” Fletcher asked curiously. “I’ve seen you _kiss_ her,” he added with a wrinkle of his nose, “and–”

The kid interrupted him, “Fletcher, that’s not a polite question to ask someone. Neither was your question, Hope. People’s romantic lives are _never_ your business.”

“ _Ever_ ,” the girl added in a voice that dared them to disagree with her.

Later that night, after being stuck listening to a long argument between the girl and her mom about eating meat, and then, after the kids got put to bed, one between the girl and the kid about his making “killing innocent animals” jokes, I finally had some quiet to sit out back and throw the geese some feed. It was one of those nights, one of those bad nights, and I was watching them fight over the food. Sometimes I still end up doing that, just to see how they’ll cope. The strongest doesn’t always win, and its kinda interesting to see which one actually does. I was filing away the information, to use next year during the Games before I stopped myself. Cause there weren’t and aren’t Games anymore.

I wanted a drink. And not a beer. I wanted something strong and oblivion-inducing.

The girl was getting too old. I could see it in the way she walked, the way she carried herself, and the way she’d started noticing things about the way people interact. Things about me. She’d reached the age that I hate the most, the age they always were when they started realizing just what the Reaping meant. For them, for their families for their friends. And just what that old drunk guy had to do with it.

It’s when the glares had started. I’d avoided kids to begin with, but once they turned ten, they had given me a reason. I had felt their eyes as I walked past the schoolyard on my way to the Hob. I’d get rock-filled snowballs to the back of the head in the winter. Mud in the spring and fall. Rotting crabapples in the summer.

Sometimes I had been too drunk to notice. But there’s a scar on the back of my head where hair won’t grow from a day when the butcher’s son had knocked me out cold.

And then there she was, ten years old, asking me accusatory questions. At first it hadn’t seemed like it, not accusatory at all, just curious. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it all fit.

Ten. The age they all realize that not only are you a worthless drunk, but a worthless drunk that hurts people they care about.

Cause why the hell _hadn’t_ I married Effie?

We’d been sleeping together for years. Exclusively on my end, and I never asked about hers. Not certain if I didn’t care, of I cared too much. We got each other. She made me laugh. Well, winding her up made me laugh, but still. She was the only one, other than Beetee and dollface, who has even the slightest clue what it feels like to lead kids to the slaughter. Kids that you had to work hard to actively hate (even though you never really could), otherwise every single minute of your life felt like death.

There are a million reasons why marriage never was in the cards. I’d been comfortable living on my own, following my own rules, coming and going as I please. I never had to worry about anyone being pissed that I’m not home, or that I drank too much. I could sleep wherever I want, whenever I want. I didn’t need to care about staying up all night. I didn’t have to eat right, or eat at all, if I didn’t feel like it.

I’d never had to pretend to be okay.

Effie had let me do all that shit anyway. And she did it even when she stayed here over long periods of time. For all her bluster, she let me be.

But there was one thing that made her different from me. Different from Jo and Beetee. Different from the kid and the girl. Different than pretty much everyone.

 She had got paid to take kids to the slaughter. She had _volunteered_ to get to know them, and then watch them die.

“That, firefly,” I said, kicking pebbles at the geese, “is why there’s no chance in hell.”

And then I walked into town, knocked on the back door of the most disreputable asshole I knew of, and walked home with an armful of white liquor bottles.

I barely remember the past two days, other than the nightmares.

That’s the fucking worst bit. The nightmares are always the part you remember.

 

About an hour later, I manage to get myself off the floor and stumbled into the kitchen. It’s been years since I went on a bender like that. I guess it’s was lot easier at fifty-nine than sixty-six. I think this one has been going on for two days, but I’m not certain. When I reach the kitchen though, I see three plates, each with breakfast food in varying states of stink and a note written in the kid’s handwriting.

I ignore it, and pick up a piece of toast just as the back door slams open.

“This needs to stop immediately,” Hawthorne spits, actually spits, at me. “As both your friend, and pharmacist, this needs to stop.”

“Who the hell said you were my friend?” I hold on to the back of the chair, as the toast tries to make a reappearance.  “Or even my pharmacist. You gave me medicine one damn time.”

Instead of responding, he stomps across the room and punches me square in the face.

I’m too drunk and too old to stop him, so I fall backwards onto the floor, clutching at my jaw.

“Haymitch Abernathy, I do not care if you are my mortal enemy, there are entirely too many people that I care about to whom you are important for me to just allow you to drink yourself to death,” he shouts, gathering the half-empty bottles of white liquor scattered around the kitchen and throwing them in the sink where they shatter.

I struggle, pulling myself up off the goddamn floor, seeing red. It wasn’t a hard, punch, and he’s already holding his hand under the cold water when I swing at him. But he’s too quick and he ducks, slipping under my arm, but also slipping on some spilled water on the floor, landing on his ass and kicking my feet out from under me in the process. I fall heavy on my side, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

“Way to go, Hawthorne,” I bellow in his face, “take out an old man who’s only half-conscious. Real noble of you.”

But he doesn’t get up, just glares at me.

“Says the geriatric maniac who made the little girl he claims to love weep,” he glares at me with what I think is actual disdain.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I gasp for breath, pulling myself off of him as he drags himself away.

“I have no idea why Peeta insists on bringing you any food at this point.”

“Vick,” the tremor in my voice makes me feel like a damn fool but I might just be past the point of caring because something is really fucking wrong, “what the hell did I do?” The terror rolls up my throat, threatening to choke me. It feels like my blood is filling up my skull. I’m drowning in it. Drowning in fear.

“Perhaps it’s escaped your attention, but your house is full of her pets. She came over the first day of your unfortunate binge, trying to feed them, and you screamed at her to get out, before slipping and falling in a puddle of what I’ve come to understand was your own vomit.” 

I shake my head. My hands have started trembling in a way that has nothing to do with booze.

With a final push, Vick gets himself free and stands up, looking at me with disgust. “The entire family is in a state of hurt, shock, or disappointment, Haymitch. Whatever demon it is that you’re wrestling with, you best defeat it. I don’t take _kindly_ to people hurting my friends.”

I feel the whole damn house shake when he slams the door.

Staggering back into the living room, I see nothing but dust outlines where cages used to be.

“Shit.”

 

_“Heard you’re getting a new one,” Chaff says, finding me on the balcony outside the president’s mansion. His girl won. First time in years Eleven’s done much of anything._

_And bless her heart, she’s ugly as sin. One of her eyes is all wonky and the Capitol can’t fix it without making her go blind. Apparently we have something to celebrate for once._

_Somehow Chaff managed to convince them to let me go along on the tour._

_I have to meet the new one. The next spineless idiot to make my life a living hell._

_“Yep,” I throw back the ridiculously delicate glass of whatever Capitol liquor is he’s handed me. “No thanks to you, the delightful Silas is moving on up in the ranks.”_

_Chaff shakes his head and shrugs as he laughs._

_“You’re not gonna miss him.”_

_I laugh cause he’s right, “Now I gotta learn to deal with some starry-eyed fangirl, or worse, some prestige-desperate bitch.”_

_“How do you know it’s a woman?”_

_“Got her name already, batshit crazy even by their standards. Essie Plinket or something ridiculous like that.”_

_We both laugh drunkenly, until one of them interrupts us._

_“It’s Effie Trinket, actually, Mr. Abernathy.” I look over my shoulder and there she is. She looks about fifteen, all pink curls and enormous eyelashes making her eyes look about five times bigger than they actually are._

_"Are you even legal?" I hold up the flimsy glass and look at her through it._

_Chaff guffaws, but the woman scowls._

_"I see that manners in Twelve have not improved in the slightest," she huffs. "Or the smell, in fact."_

_"This one's a spitfire, Haymitch, you better watch yourself," Chaff spits out between barks of laughter._

_"Well, you look like a fangirl, but you're one of those damn career bitches, aren't ya, princess?" I sneer._

_"What I am, Mr. Abernathy, is the escort for your pathetic district, which you have left unsupported for over a decade. Any admiration I may have once had for you is long gone, I assure you of that."_

_And she turns and walks off the balcony, full skirts flouncing as she goes._

_"I'd say that went well," Chaff smirks._

"Haymitch!" Vick is slapping my face, but I can barely feel it, "Haymitch I need you to tell me where we are."

I tell him to leave me the fuck alone, but it's not really words when it comes out of my mouth. My head is fucking killing me, so I close my eyes.

_They're dead._

_Of course, they're always dead. But they never make it as far as they did this time, and that makes it worse. Ninth and tenth, both falling in crumpled heaps on either side of the arena. Her from thirst. Him from, of all the goddamn possibilities, an infected mosquito bite. I could have saved her, if I just had the tiniest bit of money to send water. At least let her death be something other than agonizing._

_But there wasn't a single damn sponsor. Not for either of them._

_Not while that kid from Four existed, flashing that smile and stabbing them all to death with his goddamn trident._

_All she wanted was some water._

_I stumble back into the suite, looking for liquor or something, anything, to make all of this go away, when I hear it._

_A quiet snuffling sound, and then a horrible honking noise that echoes through the penthouse._

_She's made herself a little nest between the couch and the table, surrounded by cushions and fluffy pillows. Her curly pink wig is a mess on the table and her long brown hair is a snarled mess, falling around her face in lank strands._

_And she's bawling like a baby._

_"He won, princess!" I say with condescending excitement. "These must be tears of joy, cause **everyone** in the Capitol loves Finnick Odair." _

_She blows her nose and tells me to go to hell._

_I ignore their tokens, peeking out from her clenched fists, as she cries._

_She'll get over it._

Hawthorne’s forcing something in my mouth, making it so I have to swallow. I don’t know what the hell his deal is, but his eyes look terrified.

_"Haymitch, you have to try!" she tells me before she pushes me on the train home. "Just one year, you have to try!"_

_After her first slip, she got cold, hard, underneath all the silliness. She works the kids damn near to death with her etiquette and manners and all that bullshit. I learn my lesson, and stay drunk. The brats stare at each other, and at me, with their little doe eyes, and she glares. But I can’t save them, neither can she, and both of us know it._

_In front of the kids she's a frivolous taskmaster, making them eat with forks and say please and thank you and smile, overwhelming them with positive excitement even though they both know they're gonna die. She’s caught up in all the little details. In looking good. In looking happy. And then they’re butchered._

_But when I fall asleep in the dining car, I always wake up covered in a blanket. And it ain't from no damn Avox. I broke the nose of the last one who came near me when I was sleeping. Effie's the only one who'll dare come close if I'm out._

_I never see her after it happens. Course, I'm usually too drunk to tell. This year it’s quick, easy, a blow to the head at the Cornucopia for the girl, and a slit throat a day and a half in for the boy. They’d been from that rathole of a community home. The Arena must have seemed like a fucking paradise._

_But she’s pissed anyway, like their deaths are embarrassing._

_I ask her why it even matters if I try, and she doesn't have an answer._

_She never mentions it again._

_God she **repels** me._

"What is it, Vick?" I hear the kid ask wearily. "Whatever it is, it will wait."

"No, Peeta, it won't," he says.

Fuck, my head is splitting in half, I think.

 

_I find her curled up in the bar car, drunk as a skunk, wig halfway off, makeup smeared. It’s the first time she’s cried over tribute in ten years. First time since the first year._

_“This isn’t right,” she whimpers. “They can’t go back. Haymitch they can’t go why are they going?”_

_“Hell, princess, they never shoulda gone in the first place.”_

_She throws a glass across the room and it shatters._

_“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!” she wails. “Someone who works hard and really believes is supposed to win. Someone enchanting and brave and noble. A sign of hope for the future of Panem.”_

_“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I snort._

_“Someone like you,” she babbles. “I saw you win when I was a little girl. You deserved it. I sent you all my savings from my piggy bank.”_

_I collapse into a chair and mutter, “You should have saved them, princess. Bought yourself something nice.”_

_“They think I’m in it for the glory,” she slurs, waving one arm wildly and rubbing at her eye with the other hand. At this point her makeup is smeared up into her hairline. “But I could have moved up to Four. I was offered the job. Didn’t wanna go. Didn’t wanna leave them.”_

 

“What is it?” the girl’s surly, pissed but I can’t remember why. “Peeta?” she asks again, with an edge of terror creeping in.

“I’m concerned that Haymitch is having a stroke,” the smart-mouth says, “he needs medical care immediately.”

He doesn’t know shit.

 

_“Shut your mouth, princess,” I snarl at her, pushing her back against the wall._

_Then I’m kissing her like it’s the end of the damn world, which it basically is. She tastes bitter, like coffee and dark chocolate, instead of spun sugar like you’d think. And she kisses back hard, biting at my lips until we both taste blood._

_I throw her back on the coffee table, and I know there are probably cameras and they can probably see. But she insists that she **knows** about the rebellion, and she won’t just let it go even though the Quell’s in two days. I don’t want to waste my time telling her there’s no point in her involvement; it’s too late for all that._

_So I fuck her._

_It’s been years, really, and I’m rusty and slow from liquor, but she rakes long burning lines down my back after she rips off my shirt. She mewls and screams in a way that is so guileless, so unlike anyone who cares about the concept of manners that it makes up for any clumsiness on my end. She doesn’t try to please me. She’s greedy and I don’t care because I am too. So we just take and take and take from each other as the table makes jerking screeching sounds sliding across the floor._

_Afterwards we fight again, and she screams at me like a wildcat, telling me that she loves these kids too, and she’s tired of all this, and I just need to **tell** her._

_I say no, again._

_Then I take her up against the wall in the shower._

My head slams against the side of something hard, and I hear the kid curse.

“Hold him still, Vick. I can’t carry him the whole way but I don’t want him getting hurt on the edge of the wheelbarrow.”

I feel every bump but not really, like my head’s wrapped in a blanket.

Hawthorne’s doing a horrible job.

 

_“I didn’t want it to be like this,” she says, deep in the haze of the sleep syrup I drugged her coffee with. “I thought I was helping, Haymitch. I didn’t realize what we were really doing… it was just the way things were, but it was wrong and…” her head slumps down and she trails off._

_“Sleep well, princess.”_

_Plutarch’s hovercraft meets me on the roof._

_We’ve got a rebellion to deal with. No time for hassling with ridiculous damn escorts and their newly-found consciences. She chose this job. I didn’t. Now she wants out just cause the system she’s so used to got changed at Snow’s whim. Like anything in this damn country has ever **not** been his whim._

_She’ll be safer this way anyway. Not knowing a thing._

Crying. That’s what someone’s doing. Crying.

I don’t have a clue why. At least my head’s stopped hurting.

_I find her in a cell, covered in blood and filth. She won’t let anyone touch her, just curls up in a ball in the corner. There are fingernail gouges in the walls. The green-skinned one on the girl’s prep team told me. Snow put people in prison after the Quell, ones he thought were sympathetic to the rebellion. Effie’s there, she said._

_But now Coin doesn’t seem to trust a single one of these “rebels” so she just left them there to rot._

_When she sees me, she looks at me half in terror, half in disbelief, like I’m not real. I crouch down, and slowly make my way to her. She pulls back into herself, trembling._

_I reach out my hand, all slow and careful, maybe the gentlest I’ve ever been in my life, and push some of her matted hair out of her eyes._

_“Damn it, princess, what’d I get you into?”_

There are people. I think. Maybe. I don’t fucking know. There are shapes and sounds and my brain has no idea what the hell they are. But they’re around me and if shapes can be frantic, these ones are.

_I’m in my room, about to get drunk as a skunk, when she comes in. She doesn’t even knock. She looks like her old self, but her eyes are dead._

_A day ago the girl shot Coin dead. They have her locked up, skin half off, and I’m terrified that after everything, this will be what does her in. When they took her away, the kid had an episode and damn near killed the first peacekeeper that touched him._

_“Hello, Haymitch,” she says in an even, emotionless voice._

_I tip back my glass and swallow it all down._

_“Hey, princess. Enjoy the show today?”_

_Taking a bottle from her purse, she precisely shakes four into her palm, and then swallows them without a drop of water._

_“Absolutely not,” her tone hasn’t changed._

_I get plastered while she trips out, lying side by side on my bed, not touching._

_We forget them together._

I’m on my back. In a bed, maybe. At least half of a bed. That’s all I can feel, really.

_I’m wandering the halls of the President’s mansion, looking for booze and trying to avoid everyone. I sit with the kid, mostly, but sometimes I can’t take it anymore so I walk. Handsome paces the place these days. He’s looking forlorn and I don’t have shit to tell him, so I duck down another hall and run right into her._

_They took her pills away almost a week ago, and she’s been shivering and shaking in withdrawal-induced agony. I know how she feels._

_“You’re going away,” she mutters. “No matter what happens tomorrow, you’re going to go back.”_

_“Looks like, princess.”_

_She crouches down against the wall, her wig half off. Her makeup looks about four days old._

_“Have a nice time,” she says politely._

They’re doing something on the side I can feel, down around my crotch. I think I’d like them to stop, but I can’t make words happen. It’s not that different than my prep team, I guess, but I’m not certain because everything’s so damn muted they might be cutting my damn balls off, for all I know.

 

_I wake up shaking. I’m out of liquor till the supply train comes back._

_They tell me the kid isn’t coming back till he’s better. That might take months at least. The girl won’t eat hardly anything Sae feeds her. She won’t do much, and I don’t know how to help her. Dunno if I even should._

_Thom’s here, and Sae of course, with a few other people from the Seam. Some of them try to talk to me. Even though everyone’s dead, they’re trying to rebuild._

_It’s lonely. Suddenly for the first time. Dread and hate had been company for so long, I don’t know how to function without them. Even more than liquor. Everything hurts._

_Every single thing._

_I haven’t slept right in days, and it’s the middle of the night, but I don’t care._

_The phone rings forever before she picks up._

_“Hey princess,” I croak._

“It’s okay, nutmeg,” the kid says softly, “you can tell him. The doctor says he might be able to hear.”

“Dad, is he going to get better?” she whispers.

My mouth feels full of cotton, but I’ve fucked this girl up enough.

“Yeah, firefly,” I croak. “I am.”

The kid squeezes my hand so hard, my knuckles press together.

 

I haven’t been in a hospital, not really, since after my own Games, when they had to stick my guts back together. Since then they haven’t improved much. No booze. No salt. No joy for the man who had a stroke.

Apparently I’ve been having little ones for years. Back at Thom’s farm, when I lost consciousness, it was a somewhat bigger one. High blood pressure. Years of living wrong. Alcohol. The doctor’s say my pressure’s been so high for so long it’s pretty amazing I haven’t died yet.

Knew there was a reason I avoided doctors.

The girl and her daughter would stay with me the whole time, but I don’t let em. Nobody needs to see me like this.

I’d be lying if I said that the guilt doesn’t still hang heavy.

Luckily, Vick Hawthorne is a pretty constant companion and he seems to feel guiltier than I do.

If anything brought on the stroke, it was the shock, realizing what I did. Knowing I managed to get drunk enough that I made the girl cry, that I drove her away…

Well, that’d be enough to kill me.

But Hawthorne thinks he knocked me into a stroke. He didn’t, of course. Being completely honest, his punch wasn’t exactly the worst I’d received, and I’ve been hit by at least four kids under the age of seventeen in my time. So he sits by me in the hospital, even after I’ve kicked out the kid and the girl, and talks at me.

I’m getting pretty good at pretending to be asleep.

Made them all promise not to tell Effie. Not gonna help her at all to know. Nothing she can do. Sure, I can diet, and all that. But there’s not really much that’ll turn back “years of gross misuse” that the doctors keep talking about.

So I lie in bed and listen to Hawthorne and ignore the fact that I messed up the one thing in my life that I’m really certain I love.

Cause Effie, no matter what she is, and what’s between us… well, there’s just too much history. I don’t want her here as a constant reminder of how guilty I am. Of how guilty she is.

We don’t deserve to be happy.

But Hope is something else. I don’t have to have her, just love her.

The day I come back home, the kid helps me into the house. We don’t talk much. He doesn’t know what to say for once in his life. Terrified, maybe. Neither of them deal with change very well, especially the girl. She’s in the kitchen, stirring a pot of stew. The scowl on her face is so big it’s like a reverse smile. The whole place is cleaned, which has Hazelle written all over it.

I find Hope in the back yard. She’s feeding the geese. They’re happy and fat, and it’s obvious she’s been doing it since I left. When I open the door, she gives me a nervous smile.

“Hey there, firefly,” I say, all quiet and awkward. 

She walks across the yard to me, her geese, the same ones that she saw get born when she was just little, follow her.

“Hi,” she says, smiling a little wider.

“Thanks for taking care of the geese,” I shrug. “Nice to see they didn’t eat each other in my absence.”

She nods, but it’s timid, like I might bite her head off or something.

“Look, girl, I’m sorry. I guess I yelled at you. I don’t even know what the hell I said, but whatever it was, I’m pretty certain I didn’t mean it.”

She takes a deep breath, and then asks, “Why do you drink, Haymitch? I heard Mom and Dad talking with the doctor. They said it makes you sick. That it’s gonna… it’s gonna _kill_ you. And when you do it, you’re not even happy, just _mean_. I just…” she looks terrified, like she’s going to throw up or something, “I don’t understand why you do it.”

They never understood. At ten. They understood what I was forced to do, why I existed, but not the things a man does to forget. Why he has to. Everything seems so logical, so black and white, even in the face of pain, to a ten-year-old.

“For the same reason I’m not married,” I say. “Cause of the Games.”

Her eyes widen. I know they don’t talk about them much, and they’ve got good reason, really. But it’s the damn truth.

“It was real bad, Hope. Real bad. And sometimes things remind me of how bad it was. And it hurts. Drinking helps me forget. But, damnit, I never wanted to make you cry,” I reach out and grab her shoulders. “Ever. Do you hear me? Don’t you ever let me make you cry again. You’re too good for an old drunk like me. You deserve better people around.”

She shakes her head and wraps her arms around my waist, clinging tight to me. Her hair is in two long braids that only go about halfway down, leaving the rest thick and curly. I stare at them. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do so I’m just honest.

“When you asked about Effie, well, it just reminded me of all that. And I wasn’t ready to remember.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…” she begins with more maturity than a kid her age should have, but I pull back and crouch down.

“Don’t you ever be sorry for asking me anything, firefly. Ever.”

She nods, looking kinda confused, “Okay.”

After that, we feed the geese for a while in silence.

“So… you gonna bring all those animals back over?” I ask, my voice sounding gruffer than I want it to.

“Mom and Dad really don’t like them in the house,” she laughs, wrinkling up her nose. “Dad says they’re not very clean and Mom says they’re dinner.”

“Well, my house is a pigsty anyway, so they’re always welcome.”

Two of the geese start pecking at each other. She breaks them up, laughing and scolding them like they’re her kids.

“You still want to know about me and Effie?”

She bites her lip, “I only asked cause… well, people getting married is supposed to make them happy. That everyone’s supposed to do it when they’re in love. Like it’s the rules or something.”

“Firefly, if you learn one thing from me, you need to learn this.”

She looks at me quizzically, but trusting, like nothing ever happened. Like I didn’t get drunk and rave at her, and I’m still some kind of a respectable human.

“You’re not ever _supposed_ to do anything but whatever your conscience tells you. And if anyone ever tries to make you do something that doesn’t feel right, even if it’s just not right right then…”

She nods, letting me know she’s listening.

“Well girl, you fight them or you run.”

I don’t think she has a damn clue what I’m talking about. 


	10. Twelve

“Does it hurt?” she asks softly.

I never gave a damn about kidneys. Even when they talked about “what I was doing to myself” in the few years after my Games, it was always my liver that was on the forefront of the Capitol doctors’ minds. My liver, and how drinking so much was ruining my fine complexion. They had priorities. Even after that, whenever it wasn’t my liver, it was my heart.

No one ever said a thing about what drinking does to a man’s kidneys. Few months after my stroke, they just stopped working. After a life of abuse, they gave up. Can’t say I blame em.

Now I have a machine. Hawthorne took a hovercraft out to Beetee and together they took the standard mechanical replacement and made it better. For most people, there are other options, but not me. Even the kidneys grown in tanks have to be a match, and for some reason, mine just won’t grow. Something about the rampant alcoholism destroying the integrity of my genetic material.

“You’ve essentially made yourself into a mutt,” Hawthorne joked in explanation, then immediately covered his mouth in horror.

There wasn’t really a need. It was probably one of the funniest things he’s ever said.

So I have a machine now that takes care of my blood once a day and a Ruth Everdeen, who moved back from Four to take care of the rest of me. Staying with Hazelle. No one will say anything, but we all know it’s not permanent. Said she owed me, when I sat up in bed and asked her what the hell she was doing in my house. Apparently the hospital can take care of itself now and she wasn’t about to let her debt to me go unpaid.

Suppose she lived in the Seam long enough after all.

I guess I have Effie too, although I ask her pretty regular what the hell she’s good for.

The answer of “everything” will never slip past my lips, even though I think it about thirty times a day. Ruth might be the one who hooks me up to the machine and takes my blood and things like that. The things that Effie tried so hard to do the first week, but basically shook to pieces whenever she did.

Reminded her of prison, I think.

But Effie brings me liquor. The little bit I can have as part of my daily liquid allotment, anyway. And everything else, for that matter.

She brought the girl over today. It’s gotten harder and harder to get up over the past few months to get out of bed. About a week ago was the kid’s birthday. Forty-five years old. They had a party, a huge one, and I spent the entire day on my feet. It was a good day.

Probably the last, if I’m honest. Cause since then I haven’t really been able to sit up.

“I’m feeling pretty good now that you’re here, firefly,” I tell her as she holds me up and piles up a bunch of pillows behind my head. She’s pretty strong, actually, for a kid. Takes after her dad, I guess. Her hair’s down, looks like a long curly waterfall down her back. Her eyes are big, and although her face is still round, just like it was when she was a kid, it suits her now. It’s gonna suit her even more in a few years.  

She’s lovely.

And she’s scowling at me.

“Tell me the truth,” she puts her hands on her hips. “Grandma and I can’t help you feel better if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.”

“Honestly, girl, nothing. I feel tired, that’s it. Just real tired.”

She takes my hand in hers. It’s delicate, but there’s dirt under her fingernails. Her grip’s strong, confident.

“You’re growing up, firefly.”

There’s a laugh from the door and the kid leans in his head.

“Don’t tell her that. I’ve already said no boyfriends for the next ten years. She doesn’t need to get any ideas”

The girl rolls her eyes, “Dad, I’m twelve. I don’t want a boyfriend.”

“But your friends are getting them,” the kid says approaching the bed. He’s got spots of icing all over his arms and shirt. There’s even a bit on his face. I can see some on the girl too. They must have been baking together or something. She likes to make flowers on the cakes. “You told your mother that Lindy’s had _three_ so far. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way that kid picks on you whenever the Hawthornes come to town.”

He’s so concerned about the kid that I start to laugh, but it turns into a cough about halfway through. Nothing’s wrong with my damn lungs, but I guess it’s all I have the energy to do.

“Who wants to be a boyfriend anyway?” Fletcher asks from the door. “Seems pretty boring to me.”

Kid runs into the room and jumps on the bed. He’s got a quiver on his back, and his boots are covered in mud. There are little flecks of dried blood on the back of his hands.

“Go wash up, junior,” I tell him, “You know your dad gets itchy at the sight of that stuff.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” he jumps off the bed and runs out of the room.

The kid follows him out, “Fletcher, you might as well just take a shower. You smell like sweat and guts.”

“But I thought we were gonna make cookies, Dad!” he calls after him.

“If you think I’m letting you into my kitchen smelling like that, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Hope clings to my hand. She looks distracted.

“You worried about boyfriends, firefly?” I smirk. My head feels heavy, and she’s doing all the work of holding up my hand.

Laughing a little, she shakes her head, putting on a fake smile. She’s trying to be brave for some reason, but it’s obvious that something’s upset her.

“Something’s gotten under your skin,” I try to joke, but it comes out like a cough again. “Gotta tell me.”

She makes a face like she ate something bad.  “I just…”

“What?”

There’s a moment. Five heartbeats. She looks at the floor and the hands. “You know what today is.”

“Yeah… I do.”

Children’s Day. Parades. Speeches. Memorials get dedicated. Everyone works hard at assuaging their consciences.

“What was it like?” she whispers.

“Which part?” I ask, with a raggedy sort of laugh. “Sit down, if you want to know. Can’t talk with you leaning over me like this.”

She sits on the edge of the bed, on top of her hands. The noise of the kid, Fletcher, and Ruth laughing downstairs echoes up through the floor. A reminder that it’s all okay. That two people who I thought lost the capacity to laugh, and one that I never imagined would even exist, are all defying my wildest expectations.

“I… I’m not sure,” she says quietly. “Just… I don’t know if I can really ask Mom and Dad. She has nightmares, I hear them. And Dad… I know he doesn’t get sick much anymore, but he still does and… you said I shouldn’t be sorry to ask you things and I just thought…”

“It was bad no matter where you were,” I sigh. “If you lost, there was the obvious. You were dead. But if you won… well, that wasn’t much better.”

“I don’t mean the Games,” she says, “I’ve read some books about them and… after that, I didn’t want to think about them much. I don’t like to kill animals, even. Thinking about kids dying makes me so sad I can’t even move.”

“That’s just it,” I wheeze. “You think that goes away, but it never does. Ever. Not for a minute. There are kids who are dead, dozens of them, and it all feels like your fault. That damn guilt, it just piles up on itself, until you’re drowning on it. Everyone you know, everyone you meet, just makes it worse. They remind you of how horrible you are, or how horrible everybody else is. They remind you of the guilt. You’re stuck in that damn arena every day for the rest of your life.”

Big fat tears are running down her face, and I put them there.

But she asked, and I swore a long time ago that I’d never lie to her.

“So Mom and Dad, they feel like that too?” she sniffles.

I shrug, but it takes so much energy I slump back even more against the pillows. “Honestly, I dunno. I think your mom and dad have each other and that helps a lot.”

“Does everyone really make you feel bad?” she asks sadly.

I take a minute to think about it. Effie, of course, has guilt coming at her from every direction. How she helped with the Games, how I couldn’t save her from torture in prison. Everything. Gale Hawthorne was completely wrecked by the rebellion that I helped to run, and his whole extended family is fucked up as a result. Everyone in the district’s lost somebody cause of the bombing. I could’ve warned them somehow, or something. The girl and the kid… well, that goes without saying. I can’t really think of a single person who I haven’t somehow fucked up.

Except for one.

“Everyone, but you, firefly. Everyone but you.”

She bites her lip, “But Haymitch, it wasn’t your fault. You had to do all that. Everybody knows it.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. Anyway, I made a ton of mistakes. If it wasn’t for me, your dad wouldn’t be sick at all.”

“No,” she looks at me, tears running out of her eyes. “I think he might be dead.”

“Don’t even start with that…” I shake my head.

“T-t-they told us in school,” she starts.

I hold up my hand, “Don’t ever believe what they tell you in school.”

“If you were really the reason my dad’s sick,” she says calmly, “Mom wouldn’t talk to you.”

 And that’s the truth of it. She didn’t talk to Gale, not really, for years and years. Even now, there’s a barrier between them. The girl holds grudges. She holds them forever. And once we found out the kid was alive in Thirteen, I was the one she ran to. I wish I had the energy to move, to hide my face or something. No one needs to see me like this.

“Don’t cry, Haymitch,” she squeezes my hand. Her eyelashes are wet with the tears she was crying, but she’s smiling.

Damn it all to hell.

The door swings open and Effie bustles in.

“Haymitch, are you thirsty or–?” she starts, and then stops immediately, seeing the two of us talking. “Actually, I think I just forgot something downstairs.”

“Thanks, princess.”

The girl scoots next to me and lays her head on my shoulder.

In a few minutes, she’s fallen asleep. I’m almost there myself when I hear the door swing open. It puts me on my guard till I realize who it is. I blink a few times, till my eyes are adjusted to the light again. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is filtering in my windows. Ruth keeps them open most of the time, says I need the exposure.

“She’s going to be lovely, you know.”  

“She’s already lovely, princess. Those painkillers fuck up your eyes?”

Ignoring me, she busies herself with the covers on my bed.

“You’re dying,” she says unapologetically.

I snort, but quietly, so as not to wake her, “Yeah, and you’re watching. Seems pretty boring to me.”

“At least let me make you comfortable,” she tsks at me. “Are you feeling alright?”

“When are you gonna stop asking? Nothing hurts. I’m just fucking tired.”

She sighs, and brushes the hair out of my face. All business. She’s been all business for weeks now. Pushing away the inevitable.

I reach out and grab her wrist.

“Prin–,” I start and then change my mind.

“Effie.”

She looks at me, eyes wide. I lightly touch the delicate skin on her wrist with my thumb, running over the ridges of scar tissue left from the prison shackles. There are about five dozen different things I could tell her. None of them seem big or good enough. So I just pick the one that comes closest.

“Thanks, princess.”

Her eyes fill with tears and she rushes from the room.

Next to me, the girl sighs. While she’s sleeping, she looks just like she did when she was a baby. I think the last time she fell asleep on me she was maybe three. She drooled all over the one clean shirt I had. I lift my wrist and twirl one of her curls around my finger.

There’s a slight knock at the door.

“Come in,” I rasp out, hoping they can hear.

Ruth’s head leans in the door.

“You have some visitors,” she says softly. “A lot of them, actually. I’m going to send them in small groups so they don’t wake her up.”

It’s obvious the woman’s spent decades in a hospital. She knows what she’s doing.

Hawthorne and his busty wife come in through the door. She hugs me awkwardly, trying not to disturb the girl, and her tits get pushed in my face. I grin at Hawthorne and he shakes my hand, looking more than a bit proud of himself and his wife.

For once in his damn life, he doesn’t have much to say. Just ruffles the girl’s hair and walks out.

Posy and Hazelle come in next, and I realize this is a parade of people trying to get in their last goodbyes.

For once in my life, I don’t have anything sarcastic to say.

Hazelle doesn’t say much, course, she never was one to talk. But she puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. Posy’s eyes are sparkling with tears.

“Where’s your husband there, kiddo?” I ask.

She grins through her tears, “Just hanging out with his other half.”

“You’d better watch out for those two,” I tell her.

Her ponytail swings, just like it did when she was young and she kisses me on the cheek, “Oh, I’m more than a match for my nephew, don’t you worry.”

Alder and Nick come in as soon as Hazelle leaves. Nick leans forward and kisses Posy on the forehead. It’s a real romantic gesture, but she brushes him off and calls him a softy. They fall into each other, exchanging soft whispers, and Alder rolls his eyes.

“It’s unfortunate that you’re dying,” he holds out his hand for me to shake.

Nick sighs with frustration, but I laugh. Posy kisses him on the cheek, then walks out of the room.

“I – well – what I mean to say is…” Nick starts quietly.

It’s Alder’s turn to sigh, “What he means to say is, it’s unfortunate that you’re dying, Haymitch.”

“Take that and insert some tact,” Nick shrugs, “and yeah, I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.”

I shake my head, “Hardly the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, boys.”

Nick looks even more uncomfortable, but Alder starts laughing hysterically.

“Grief does weird things to people,” Nick says, as he pulls him from the room.

Hope burrows into my side. I guess that’s all the visitors for the afternoon. I feel drained. Exhausted. Kinda cold. But the door swings open one more time.

“How’s she doing?” the kid asks, looking at the girl as she sleeps

 “Just sleeping. Kinda weird. She doesn’t normally take naps”

He sits on the edge of the bed and sighs, “She hasn’t been sleeping much lately. Nightmares. I found a book about the Games under her pillow the other day.”

I keep my mouth shut about what she asked. She’ll tell em when she’s good and ready.

“I don’t think it’s the book, though,” he continues quietly. “She knows what’s happening to you. I mean, she’s smart. She understands. But,” his voice quavers a bit, “that doesn’t mean she wants it.”

There isn’t anything to say, so I don’t say it. Just ruffle her hair a bit.

“Haymitch… I… listen,” his voice is raw.

“Kid, don’t get sentimental on me now.” 

He shakes his head, “Would you just listen for once?”

There’s an edge to his words that shuts me up.

“I want you to know that without you…” he takes a quiet breath, “none of this would be possible. Not just because of the Games, or even the rebellion. But after that.”

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I just raised geese and got drunk.”

“Without you, I don’t know if I would have ever even been able to get better.”

“Kid, I didn’t do a damn thing.”

“You listened. When there wasn’t anyone else.”

“I think you’ve got me confused with a certain blonde lesbian.”

He hits the wall hard with his fist and the sound echoes through the room.

“Would you SHUT UP AND LISTEN?”

In her sleep, Hope stirs.

“Sorry,” his voice breaks and a part of my soul busts off at the sound, “You’re my family. And I don’t want to lose any more family.”

“Too late for that, kid.”

He nods and all of a sudden, instead of a man, I see the kid in the hospital room, tied down and weeping cause the bakery’s been razed to the ground.

“I know,” he looks at the ground and his voice is more of a growl. “It’s always too late. But I just wanted you to know…”

“Dad?” Fletcher’s voice rings out from downstairs.

The kids hand grabs mine and he squeezes.

“Coming, bud,” he calls out. Hope stirs again, but stays asleep as he crosses the room.

“I still haven’t recovered from putting you in the shower,” he grins at the door, but his eyes are all dewy and I wish like hell he’d just go away because the thought of leaving him fills me with unimaginable guilt.       

After that, I fall into a sort of trance kind of thing. My body feels cold, except for the part of my side that the girl’s leaning against. Her steady breathing is soothing.

I think I should be scared. I’m not. But the lack of fear is kinda off-putting. I have no idea what’s going to happen after all this. There are stories, real old ones, about heaven and hell. I have no clue what to think of them. But for fifty years that I’ve lived in varying states of self-inflicted agony. I doubt anything after this could be worse.

“So you’re going to leave us then,” she says bluntly from the door, jarring me from my sleep. “I don’t think I like that.”

“Don’t like it much either, have to say,” I groan. I don’t feel quite right. Something slow and steady that’s been creeping up for the better part of the year has settled into my chest. Everything’s slowing down.

I think I must be fucking dying for certain at this point, but I guess I might as well keep it to myself. This afternoon’s parade of goodbyes proves they already know anyway.

“Is this where I’m supposed to thank you? Because, I don’t… if you’re…” she gnaws on her lips, chewing on her words as though if she doesn’t say them, I’ll stick around.

“Nah, I already know you owe me your ass. Although, sweetheart, I have to say…”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it,” she says through gritted teeth. She’s angry about all this. They hate change, the two of them. After all they’ve been through, I’m not surprised.

“I’m pretty certain you brought me back to life. All your idiotic stubborn grit. I was halfway dead before you. Don’t know really what was keeping me going. Maybe the thought of those kids dying alone, but there wasn’t much left, you know? Not till your name got pulled.”

“I don’t want to know,” she says honestly.

“But it wasn’t enough. Maybe I wasn’t gonna off myself, but there wasn’t really much of a man left either way. You brought me back to life, maybe, but that’s not I want to thank you for.”

“Haymitch, what are you talking about?”

“Hope.”

“I never gave you hope. I was confused, made dumb mistakes, and basically pissed you off all the time.”

“I’m not talking about the feeling. I’m talking about your girl. If I’ve got a soul to save, I’m pretty damn certain she saved it, sweetheart.”

She’s fighting tears, and it’s so much worse than the kid, who just let them fall.

“Shut up, you idiot. You’re fine. Vick said, you just use the machine every day, you’ll be fine.” Her voice is frantic, even though she knows it doesn’t work anymore. That everything inside me’s just worn out at this point.

But I nod, as she takes my hand and grips it tight.

“It is fine, sweetheart. It’s all fine. Your girl. She’s safe.”

She nods, and I see blood drip down her chin from where she’s biting her lip.

I feel my own grip weaken. Something ragged and determined, the little piece of me that just never quit, begins to fray apart. It just makes me laugh out loud.

Because she’s wrong. I’m not gonna be fine.

And I’m right.

Just like usual.

She sits with me, quiet, as I fall asleep, the girl still by my side. I feel more relaxed than I ever have in my life. Peace that’s hid from me for decades, somehow rolls over me in thick waves. I need to rest. I can finally really rest.

Cause it’s Reaping Day. And Hope Mellark is twelve.

And absolutely nothing happened.


	11. Epilogue

Today is a big, big day.

Of course, it would also be the one day that my hair, meticulously arranged, needs extra pins. So as everyone else left the house, I stayed behind, rooting in cabinets, drawers, and other nooks and crannies in a desperate attempt to find _something_ that will hold back my hair. Both Katniss and her daughter are practical in these matters. Braids, twists, and things that seem to stay together through sheer force of will. So my hair hangs in ringlets down my back, the sort that he would have pulled at when I wasn’t looking.

I open the door of the house quietly from the back, trying to sneak past the memories, clinging to trees as I go. But I know they can’t be escaped. He is in the very ground.

It’s then that I realize the girl is still here.

Today I showed Katniss how to twist her curls into the elaborate knot on her head and then I tucked the flowers into dark tresses, just as I did when she was small. But now she’s a woman. The most lovely woman I have ever had the pleasure to know. She doesn’t hear my approach, as I dig my soft fingers into the bark of the tree. I don’t think I’ve ever snuck up on anyone before, all clicking and tsk-ing and yesyesyes-ing. But today is somehow different.

“I’m supposed to get married today, Haymitch,” she says softly, peering under the edge of her veil, a fashion in Two but something very new here. The wind catches it, and blows it backwards, off of her face, and she laughs lightly, but I can see through the glimmer of the sun that her eyes are full with tears. I know I shouldn’t be watching this, I should clear my throat loudly so we can go down to the square and get everyone lined up to have a wonderful party. But he loved her. And I loved him, even though I suppose I really never had the right.

So I have to listen.

“The thing is…” she pauses, and her voice cracks just the tiniest bit. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said when I was little. That being married wasn’t the only way to love a person. That sometimes, you just have to let her do what she wants to do, and know that she’ll just keep on coming back. That you can even live your own lives in different places and go on loving all the same. And that sometimes its all complicated, even when you do.” I feel myself trembling with the realization that against all that I’ve believed for so many years, he was talking about _me_. That we were more than just two lost souls clinging to each other. More than just the last of our kind, old relics watching our world die away.

Oh _Haymitch_.

The girl stands taller, as she continues, “You said that if anyone ever tries to make me do anything I know that isn’t right, even if it’s only not right _right now_ , that I should run for it. You said I could be, that I could _do,_ anything I wanted. And Haymitch? I just don’t think I want to _do_ this.”

She rips her veil off completely and throws it to the ground, pieces of her ornately knotted hair falling down in cascades around her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight in my entire life.

“I love Jasper, the silly idiot, I really do, but I’m only twenty,” she sighs. “I want to know that I love him because he’s worth loving, not because we grew up together and he’s _safe_. There’s a whole world and in the past few years I’ve realized that I’ve been hidden away from it for my whole life. Always had to be safe, always had to be protected, guarded from the cameras, from the crowds. I understand. I understand why you all did it, and I appreciate it, but I’m _tired_ of safe. I want to see things for myself. I want to be able to try, and be able to fail. If everyone fought so hard to make this world for _me,_ then I want to live in it.”

“So I’m _going_ , Haymitch,” she gasps, as though they’re arguing. “I’m going and if he loves me, then he’s just gonna to have to wait, because I’m not _ready_.”

After a long moment, she begins again, and her voice is soft once more “I wish you were here. I wish you were here to tell me that it’s okay, that I can do this. And I wish you were here so I could tell you that I understand why you did what you did in the Games and in the War. That it’s not your fault that Momma screams at night and Dad can’t remember my name sometimes. I hope you knew that only reason I’m even alive was because of you. That you were the greatest hero I’ve ever known.”

The tears are running down my face so thickly I feel like she must be able to hear them as they splash on the ground.

“But you’re not,” she says accusingly. “And maybe that’s the only thing I can’t forgive you for. Because you’re not here for me to tell you how much you meant to me, to everyone. So I just have to live the way you taught me. And I know I never called you this, and you’d have killed me if I did, but I just want to say it. Just one time.”

Ignoring her wedding dress, she kneels on the ground, and kisses it gently. Her words are whispered on the wind.

“I love you, Grandpa. I love you so much.”

He’s gone and he’s here. I don’t know how to live like this, caught in this limbo of memories, but I promised him I wouldn’t stop, swore I wouldn’t.

I’m leaning against the tree, chest heaving as I try to keep from scattering into a thousand different fragments of joy and grief when she runs past. She stops abruptly when she sees me, as though she’s been caught.

“You’re running, then,” I clear my throat, digging my nails into the palm of my hand.

She nods with finality, “Please don’t try to stop me.”

“Well, I’m certain your father at least will appreciate it if I allow you to go,” I try to joke because it’s the only thing holding me together. “He never was Jasper’s biggest admirer.”

“I _think_ I love him, Effie,” she makes to explain through laughing tears, “I do. But I have to be sure. Tell Jasper that. You heard what I said, didn’t you? Tell them all what I said. Try to explain. I can’t… if I stop, I’ll never leave.”

“I’ll tell them, darling.”

She hugs me tightly, and makes to go.

“Wait!”

She looks over her shoulder at me.

“He would have been proud of you, Hope, even though he might not have made it obvious. He’d just have said–”

“–‘Get out of here, firefly,’” we finish together. Her eyes are glistening like diamonds through her tears. She’s still not quite certain. Still waiting for approval.

“So get out of here, firefly,” I choke out a laugh, but it resembles crying a great deal more.

As she runs, I slide to the ground, shaking like a leaf.

For a large portion of my life, the spotlight was the one thing I craved. I wanted to shine. I wanted attention. And now, as I walk through the crowd of people surrounding the bakery, I have never desired anything more in my life than to sink into the ground, away from their eyes. Peeta and Katniss look at me with alarm. Gale looks a million miles away.

Johanna looks furious. She’s standing up, about to rush towards me, when I hold out my hand.

“I need to speak to Jasper, please,” I say, drawing strength from of all of the years of decorum that I meticulously cultivated in the face of a body count that I slowly realized was my responsibility just as much as it was anyone else’s. Jasper’s parents, as well as Katniss and Peeta make to follow me into the bakery, but I stop, and turn around.

“Alone,” I tell them sternly. The murmur of the crowd grows louder, but Jasper approaches, looking curious, but not nervous. Not nervous at all. He’s handsome, this whirlwind of a young man. As we slowly enter the bakery, he doesn’t say a word. I’m not sure if that’s about to make this easier, or more difficult.

“Hope’s not ready,” I begin, when the door is closed behind me. “She felt…”

I shake my head. These words aren’t mine. I need my own words.

“I apologize,” I breathe. “Let me begin again.”

“Jasper, from the time she was born, Hope and then her brother, have been protected more than any other children I think in the history of this nation. The extent to which people like Beetee, your father, and I worked to keep cameras and tourists out of District Twelve cannot be easily downplayed. The children of the Mockingjay and Peeta Mellark were to be left _utterly_ alone. When Katniss’ restrictions were lifted, and they could travel again, it was always under the greatest of security restrictions. Whole towns were put under watch just so their trains could pass through.”

He grins knowingly, as though I’m not about to tell him that his fiancée has left him standing at the altar.

“She wouldn’t have liked that at all if she knew.”

I smile, just a little, because he is most definitely right. “I think she’s finally realized what a protected, blissful haven her childhood was, Jasper. That there’s an entire world outside District Twelve and the few places she’s been allowed to visit. And she’s ready to see it…”

I take a deep breath. I’ve never delivered a death blow, but this feels like it might be one, “…but she needs to do it alone.” I breathe heavily, and there is an expectant silence.

Instead of, sullen sadness, heartbroken tears, or even mad rage, I’m greeted by laughter and the pull of centrifugal force on my heavy curls, as the young man suddenly picks me up and spins me around.

“W-w-what?” I ask, trying to keep from being sick as the world whirls around me.

Quick as he lifted me up, he abruptly drops me, and then runs out of the bakery.

I dash after him, only to see him climbing the hill to Victor’s Village as fast as he can, his long legs pumping, and his tie trailing over his shoulder. Without knowing why, I follow, kicking off my heels so I can run, despite my age.

Decorum be damned.

“What _the hell_ is going on, Trinket?” Johanna bellows.

I look over my shoulder to see that both she and Gale, as well as Katniss and Peeta, are chasing after me. Since they are quite a bit younger, they are likely to overtake me in a matter of seconds, despite Peeta’s bad leg. The rest of the crowd is not far behind.

As he runs, Fletcher Mellark begins to sing a ridiculous song about runaway brides that he may just be making up as he goes. Lindy Alberts, the maid of honor, giggles at him, and he winks back at her like a rogue. Alder Hawthorne and Nick Odair seem to be racing each other, the former behaving more like a child than I have ever seen in my life, despite the fact that he is thirty years old. From out of nowhere, Juniper Hawthorne overtakes all of us. With little effort, she reaches her twin’s side. They look at each other as they take long deerlike strides. Whatever they are communicating to each other, they say without words. Then she slows at the same time that he picks up speed.

When Jasper reaches the Mellark house, he grabs the side of the old trellis and pulls himself up, climbing the house as easily as ascending a ladder. He clambers up the roof, scaling the gables until he’s grasping onto the sturdy brass weather vane and stretching his long body as far out as he can with no regard whatsoever for his safety. He shields his eyes to look out over the valley. Finally, he seems to find what he’s looking for, and he drops his hand.

“ **Hope!** ” the groom roars, grinning like a maniac. The entire crowd falls completely silent, looking to each other, and to the parents of the bride and groom for answers which are obviously not forthcoming.

“ **I love you, girl!** ” the young man’s shout echoes through the mountains. “ **This whole running away business? It doesn’t change a thing about that! You want to see the world alone? Well, I’ll give you a three months head start!** ” The crowd murmurs in confusion. This is most definitely the most bizarre wedding any of us have ever attended. Plutarch would have given entire right arm to film it.

“ **But you’d better be clever, moonbeam, if you wanna stay away from me, ‘cause there isn’t a _thing_ in this world that’s gonna stop me from finding you once I start to look!** ” His hair is blowing in the wind, and he looks madly, wildly, passionately alive, and in love. It’s as though, instead of getting married, all he wanted out of this day was for his bride to run away. To run away so he could find her again.

Everyone gathers at the crest of the hill, looking down. There by the tracks is a small figure with her white dress hitched up to her knees. She’s running as fast as she can to grab onto the last train car as it pulls out of the station. There’s a moment when I think she almost won’t make it, but then she reaches hard, her fingers connect with the railing, and she swings herself up into the car. The crowd sighs in relief, but their reaction is nothing compared to the boy on top of the house.

“You see her? You see that girl!” Jasper shouts joyously. “I’m gonna marry her someday! **You hear me, Hope Mellark?** ” he calls at the top of his voice, the woods reverberating with his ecstatic, ludicrous joy. “ **I’m gonna marry you someday!** ”

She leans out of the car and waves her veil victoriously, and I’m almost certain I hear her call back.

“ _You’re gonna have to catch me first, Jasper Hawthorne!_ ”

In the depths of my heart, the memory of Haymitch laughs until I can feel it in my toes.


End file.
